Manifest Destinies
by DevinBourdain
Summary: The major moments in the gang's lives that lead them to becoming part of an outlaw gang. Prequel to Western Enterprises Series. Series of one shots for each character. Kirk:If You're Not Sinning. Spock:The Fallacies of logic. Scotty:Brave New World. Uhura:Once More. Sulu:Interesting Times. Chekov:We All See the Same Sun.Pike: More Stories. McCoy: One Foot in Front of the Other
1. Kirk pt 1

Disclaimer: The Star Trek characters are not mine, just borrowed for this story.  
Warnings: language and violence and references to sex  
Reviews are always welcome and appreciated

* * *

**This will be a series of one-ish shots for each character's origin story (Kirk, Spock, Pike, Scotty, Uhura, Sulu, Chekov and McCoy) to the Western Enterprises Universe (Among the Willows)**

It's not necessary to read Among the Willows first.

* * *

 **If You're not Sinning, You're not Having Any Fun**

At four years old, Jim Kirk tries on his father Stetson and spends the afternoon gawking at himself in the mirror. He uses his finger as a gun and practices drawing. It's that moment that he realizes he's going to be a famous lawman like his father: Sheriff George Kirk.

At the age of six, Jim watches in horror as Nero rides into town and hangs his father. The law doesn't touch Nero for his crime and Federation City falls into a lawless state. As his mother moves them back to her home town of Riverside, he decides he doesn't want to grow up to be a sheriff.

He knows a seven year old shouldn't play with his father's gun but he swears it was calling to him. His mother's not the damsel in distress the town believes her to be and he knows she can not only use the firearms that used to belong to George but use them well to protect what's left of her family. It's during a game of hide and seek that he finds the box under her bed and the pistol safely encased within.

The little devil on his shoulder doesn't have to preach very long before he snatches up the weapon, a handful of bullets and makes off to old Reginald farm for target practice in the field. It takes a couple of weeks but pretty soon he can't miss the targets even when he tries. Cans sitting on the wooden fence aren't the fast pace targets of a chase but it's a start and an inclination to natural skill. It's the first time he thinks about tracking Nero down and showing him what happens when you mess with a Kirk. But then he thinks about his mother and how worried she'd be if he just up and left and thinks it might be a mission that has to wait. He keeps the gun though; he has big plans for it.

When he's eight years old he over hears his mother crying to a family friend about how much he reminds her of George. He's always know he's the spitting image of his father but this is the first time he's heard he's a carbon copy. He isn't blind to the pain he cause his mother, both directly and indirectly. In that moment he vows to be nothing like George Kirk. Maybe then he can mitigate the damage he does to his mother.

When Jim reaches the ripe old age of twelve, he goes and gets busted in school for gambling, a rather impressive racket of indebting other students so they have to do his school chores, and has the teacher worked into a frenzy. He doesn't want to burden his mother with his troubles and needs to come up with something to sooth his teacher's ruffled feathers. It's a land mark moment as he learns a little charm goes a long way, he can talk his way out of anything and the most deadly weapons he has in his arsenal are his deep blue eyes. He's so proud of himself he takes the rest of the day off of school and spends the afternoon fishing. And he doesn't even get in trouble for it.

Fifteen seems like a good age to set out on his own. His brother Sam's married and the happy couple are living with mom and looking after the homestead. Jim isn't needed to work on the farm for the family's income anymore. There's a big world out there and he's going to see, wild and unbound by rules and expectations. Living with the ghost of his father has never been easy and he regrets to say his mother looks a little relieved when he announces his intention to leave.

He heads to the next town over and meets a lady of the night named Ruth who teaches him what he didn't know how. It's the best educational experience of his life, fortifying his interest in the opposite sex and booze; he vows to spend the rest of his life seeking out both. He's never alone after that and always in good spirits. His charm isn't just for getting himself out of trouble anymore.

After touring the towns this side of the mountains he kind of wants to see what's become of his father's town. Federation City has grown but just as rough as he remembers leaving it. He hits up the saloon and takes a table in the back. It's been ten years but there's probably still people who remember his father and one look at him is going to clue them into just who Jim is. He wants neither the reminder nor the attention.

Half way through the night a man reeking of booze and frustration chases a girl who can't be much older than him down the stairs from the bedrooms yelling about how she hasn't earned her money yet. The townspeople, too drunk, too busy or too afraid to do anything just ignore them as the man viciously slaps the girl, a terrified whimper slipping past her aching lips. She falls to the floor in a heap, clutching her face and bawling her eyes out. It has nothing to do with Jim and being a hero never got anyone anything but dead, but still he can't seems to ignore the girl's plight when the man pulls his belt free from his pants and raises it to strike the girl.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," warns Jim, pulling his gun. He cocks it and let his hand rest on the table.

The man looks Jim over, sizing him up. "This aint none of yer business, son." The man raises his arm again, belt in hand.

Jim insists, "You're making it my business."

The man lowers his hand, letting the belt fall to the floor. His attention is focused on Jim now, allowing the girl to scramble to her feet and make her way back upstairs to the arms of the other girls not attending to clients at the moment. "What are ye gonna do about it, boy?"

Jim cocks his head to the side like he's considering his course of action. "First of all, I aint your son, and secondly, I'm going to ask you to stop and if you don't, I'll make you stop. Your choice," he says with a cocky smile.

The guy goes to pull his gun but Jim's faster even if his wasn't already in his hand and out on the table pointing at his target. He fires two shots, injuring the man's hand and his leg; perhaps he'll think twice next time he pulls a gun or attacks a woman. Jim figures mild flesh wounds are enough of a deterrent to defuse the situation and won't land himself in jail for murder. He doesn't think he can talk his way out of a murder charge for defending a whore in Federation City just yet.

Nobody bats an eye as the man leaves hissing and spitting and promising retribution. Jim is alive, his heart pounding in his chest and adrenaline singing in his veins; he's never felt so alive. The exhilaration wars with his promise to be the complete opposite of everything that was George Kirk. He thinks this might be the first time he's found a medium he can live with; the right thing through his own means. For the first time he believes he might actually be able to punish Nero for taking his father from him.

* * *

With all of his seventeen years of life experience, Jim knows the best he's doing is making a nuisance of himself. Nero's gone from being a thug to a man of industry and thus hides in places Jim can't get to. He can disrupt business but it's only momentary. One person just can't cause enough damage to shut Nero down or get his attention.

He takes his frustration out by getting into bar fights every chance he gets; the more unwinnable the better. He never stays very long in any town, and being run out for property damage more often than not, has nothing to do with his decision to leave and lays the ground work for impressive fights when he returns.

He rarely needs to take any jobs, relying on gambling to pay for food, ammunition and a bed. When cards don't pay, he's on a first name basis with most of the working girls in the area. If they won't share their beds with him because they like him, they'll do it in exchange for favors. Jim's come to realize he's a bleeding heart for the causes of the damned. Mostly he teaches guys not to rough the girls up or collects money owed. One more memorable time he had to pretend to be of the civilized sort and escort a lady to a party to make her husband jealous enough to reconsider proceeding with divorce.

He has one brief brush with love, falling so hard for a girl that every moment they aren't in each other's company he physically aches. After a month of trying to deny why he hasn't moved on to the next town he finally bites the bullet and decides he might have something worth sticking around for. He buys himself some new presentable clothes and makes the terrifying journey to seek out Rayna's father to ask for her hand in marriage.

Jim sits there stiffly and listens to all the reason's her father knows Jim isn't good enough for his daughter. He can't argue with a single one of them except for the fact that he really does love her. He accepts the 'no' with all the dignity and grace he can manage and promises to never see Rayna again. He spends the night getting drunker than he ever remembers getting and makes sure to be out of town by morning. He won't suffer the devastation and trappings of love again.

* * *

Jim still makes what most sane people would consider bad choices. There's something thrilling about pushing the envelope, of looking death in the face and telling him, "Not today, asshole." He hasn't found a fight he won't jump into and can't say he makes most of his money through honest means. He's eighteen years old and isn't tied down by any place, thing or person; he couldn't get any further away from being George Kirk if he tried.

He's entirely unsurprised when he finds himself in a jail cell on the heels of a judgement promising he's going to spend the best part of his life in prison since he technically hadn't done anything to earn himself a hanging. He's still in the Sheriff's cell waiting to be shipped out at the end of the month to what will be his home for the foreseeable future and he's already wanting to climb the walls. Fortunately his charisma knows no bounds and it's not his fault that the Kirk charm enthralls the lovely young lady who brings him his lunches. It's just a bonus or maybe an extra layer of danger that she's the daughter of the Sheriff and has access to the key that unlocks the cell door. He can do amazing things even with his hands chained together.

What surprises Kirk, is who walks in the door about a week into his stay. Jim's always been a little self-destructive so he doesn't stop ravaging the Sheriff's daughter despite hearing what he assumes is the Sheriff entering the room.

"Aren't you in enough trouble already?" asks a voice that is absolutely not the Sheriff.

The girl gasps going rigid in Jim's arms before frantically trying to set her dress to rights. Jim makes and exaggerated look of disappointment as she flees the cell, too red in the face to even look at the man who walked in on them. Kirk takes in the uninvited guest out of the corner of his eye as he does up his pants, before shifting to sit properly on his cot. He sits perfectly still and tries to look uninterested as he greets the man standing on the right side of the bars. "Well, if it isn't Lieutenant Pike."

Jim hasn't seen Pike in years, probably not since just after their move to Riverside. Christopher had been an old family friend having grown up with George and joining the army with him. While George met a girl and wanted to settle down, Pike stayed with the army.

"Actually, it's Captain now," corrects Pike, pulling up a chair.

Jim rolls his eyes and slumps back against the wall.

"You know I couldn't believe it when the Sheriff told me your name, that _you_ landed yourself in here," starts Christopher conversationally.

"And who am I _Captain_ Pike?" interrupts Jim, irritation coloring his voice. He likes to conduct his sinning without the damning sermon after.

"Your father's son." The answers so simple but cuts so deep. Jim's been running from it for so long; it's not a pressure he can live up to. He doesn't even know if he wants to try. Besides, being as self righteous as George Kirk doesn't seem like it would be all that fun.

A fond look passes over Pike's face. "You know what I loved about your father? He didn't believe in no win scenarios."

Jim lets out a long huff before muttering, "Sure learned his lesson."

Pike shrugs nonchalantly. "Well that depends on how you define winning. You're alive aren't you?" Jim turns his head, suddenly fascinated with the wall. Christopher opts to change tactic. "You like being the only genius level repeat offender in the Midwest?"

"Maybe I love it," Jim counters, tacking on his devil may care smile for effect.

"Maybe," emphasises Pike, "you were meant for something special."

Jim frowns. "What? Join the army like you? You must be low on your quota if you want someone like me to join."

"I saw your handiwork in the saloon. Saloon brawls and stealing cattle are a waste of your talent." Even a week later, the saloon still looks like a war broke out in it. Jim's alleged crimes are lengthy and varied and something to be awed at by their sheer range and multitude. The crimes the Sheriff in this town can actually pin on Kirk are cattle rustling and assault, though the Sheriff isn't terribly upset with who Jim had beaten to a pulp more at the damage to his town.

"I didn't start the fight. The guy came looking for me," retorts Jim. He's never disputed the facts, just the cause. If people are going to take issue with his sins they should at least get the facts straight. He's foolhardy enough to be involved in shit but not dumb enough to start things for no reason.

"Because you stole his cattle," counters Pike, failing to see how Jim is anything less than guilty.

Jim explodes, rising to his feet to pace in front of the cell bars. "He stole them first!" Pike looks at Jim with disbelief. "The guy is leasing land to new settlers. He waits until they get established and raises the rent beyond what they can afford before first harvest or slaughter. When they can't pay, he takes the livestock leaving the families without any means to make money or even feed themselves. I gave the cattle back to their rightful owners."

Pike smiles like Jim just proved his point. "That's why you should join. We restore law to the land and make it safe for civilized people to live their lives out here. You can make sure another Nero doesn't destroy someone else's life." It's a low blow, but the point stands. Jim has the potential to help a lot of people but first Chris has to save him from himself.

Kirk flops back on his cot looking like a wounded animal. Defeat laces his voice when he asks, "We done?" He's tired and everything he's tried to get to Nero or get the man's attention hasn't gotten him any closer to his goal.

Pike nods and gets up from his chair. He stops at the door but doesn't turn to look at Jim. "Your father was the Sheriff in Federation City for over a year and a deputy for nearly five. In that time he protected that town from tyranny and the evils of the world. Most of that town owes their lives to your father. I dare you to do better with your life."

Jim doesn't sleep well that night and in the morning he asks the Sheriff to bring Captain Pike back.

* * *

A leopard doesn't change its spots but Jim's damned determined to rise to Pike's challenge. It requires him to work harder and be smarter to make the grade and not get busted for any of his shenanigans. He dreams of a day where Pike might have to salute him as a superior rather than a subordinate. It's the first time his skills have been encourage and funneled into a useful matter and Pike doesn't hesitate to show him at every opportunity the good his actions are facilitating. For the first time he thinks he might be someone his mother could be proud of.

Despite some of his less than approved methods for getting things done, Jim manages to climb rank and before he knows it, he's Pike's Lieutenant at twenty-one and responsible for other people. Pike's only concern, as with the army's, is results and not the heathenism that is Jim Kirk. If he should happen to find comfort in the arms of a willing woman on a cold dark night, or nearly dry up a saloon, as long as he gets the prisoner back on schedule, no one is the wiser. If as no one gets hurt, he's given a rather long leash to get away with things that wouldn't fly with anyone else. Jim's methods can be dangerous, risky and rebellious and certainly responsible for every gray hair Christopher is getting. With all of Jim's accomplishments, procedure be damned, Pike can't argue that Kirk produces results.

Jim views it as a badge of honor when Pike recommends him for the detachment going to negotiate a land treaty with the Vulcan people. He struts around camp like a cock with the walk but inside he's nervous that he has someone other than his mother to disappoint.

* * *

The treaty is going to be negotiated by Chief Sarek and council for the Vulcans and army officers, with a much higher rank than lieutenant. Jim is allowed to attend the greeting ceremony and is impressed with both the people and the culture, as strange as it is. It's a learning experience that gives him his first taste of diplomacy and spikes his interesting in all the things he could accomplish with words rather than arms. He's always been good with words.

When Jim is excluded from the talks he takes to chatting with the Chief's son, who isn't the greatest with small talk but rather willing to engage in a cultural exchange. They come from very different worlds; customs often the stumbling block to understanding, but one thing they can agree upon is chess. Spock takes to it surprisingly well and brings tactics to the game that excites and stump Jim. He hasn't had an opponent other than Pike who made the game this exciting before.

They play chess in the evenings, usually in the main hut the Vulcans created as a 'town hall', capitalizing on the light of the fire that is kept burning inside. Through their conversations he learns that Spock's mother is not Vulcan, rather she comes from Dodge of all places, and met Chief Sarek when her father moved the family out west to take advantage of the government land grants. She _may_ have taught Spock the finer points of chess long before he met Jim thought the Vulcan won't confirm nor deny the his mother's chess skills.

Spock, like all Vulcans, has no taste for alcohol and refuses to accompany Jim back to the army mess tent for drinks after the game. It's probably just as well, watching the soldiers get drunk and rowdy at cards doesn't paint them in the best light when they're supposed to be upstanding members of society.

The game goes extra long tonight and Jim's sure he's missed out on getting his fair share of the smuggled moonshine as he creeps back to his tent.

The camp is silent, almost everyone having turned in for the night and he really doesn't want rouse anyone and start a panic or worse, irritate his commanding officer. He assumes it's the last of the drunken diehards commiserating that he hears whispering in the night as he passes by one of the tents but the conversation stops him cold. There are only a handful of men, mostly officers, staying within the Vulcan camp, the majority of the men are camped further down the river, narrowing down the list of culprits. The Vulcans' main camp is further up river, making the place for the treaty an attempt at neutral ground and a tactic for both sides to hide their true numbers. Whoever is still up is discussing bringing the troops forward and not to partake in the festivities.

He stands there, frozen in place, barely daring to breath, as he listens to the plan by his fellow officers to slaughter the Vulcans and take the land. His stomach drops as he thinks of his part in this elaborate lie they've been selling. He's spoken highly of his people and the agreement they've been sent to broker; given his word that it will be good for the future of the Vulcan people. The Vulcans had sat down with them in a show of good faith to help secure an agreement that benefits both groups while the army is using it as a means to lure them into a false sense of security and get them to lower their guard.

Jim knows the supplies they brought with them, the contingent of men and knows the Vulcans don't stand a chance of beating them back. The Vulcans are mostly peaceful, having entered these negotiations in good faith, they'll never see this betrayal coming in time to mount any kind of resistance. It's going to be a bloodbath. He finds himself stumbling backwards, feet picking up speed until he's well within the bushes and losing his lunch. He didn't accept Pike's dare to be part of this.

When he stops heaving, he wipes his mouth and slumps to the ground, careful not to land in his own mess. His head is spinning, his hands are shaking and they're not even covered in innocent blood yet. There's a bad taste in his mouth and it has nothing to do with vomit. He hasn't felt this helpless since Nero wrapped his arms around him and made him watch as his father was hanged in the middle of town.

Cold despair turns to hot anger at being used, at the lies and he's on his feet, moving without thought. He needs to do something, has to do something, he won't stand idly by again and watch death befall good people. He turns to head back to the tent, to let his fists explain the error in the officers' plan but stops a few paces shy of the tent. He can't take on the whole detachment and a plan like this didn't originate from anyone here; it has to go higher up than that.

He starts walking again, moving towards the Vulcans' tent to demand to speak to Chief Sarek. He needs to warn them; the army's going to move in when the senior council comes in to finalize the agreement in two days. Perhaps they can rally and attack before the army has a chance; lay defenses to protect themselves. He stops again in front of the tent. What are the odds they would believe him? Vulcans are logical, the logic of the situation is settlers are pushing against the boarders of their land, using up the resources they depend upon; they need this deal to survive. They'll want to talk it out, and find a peaceful solution to this latest development. Even mentioning it to the army will force their hand sooner.

Jim turns, going back the way he came. Even if the Vulcans buy his story the army won't let them just walk away. He sees the path stretching out before him, to stand up for what's right or worry about his own ass. Jim's never taken the easy way out in his life, he won't start now. He unties his horse and makes off in the dead of night towards the Vulcan village.

* * *

His reception isn't warm; the army's not supposed to be this far north. The remaining Vulcan braves surround him, giving orders in a language he doesn't understand but the message is clear. He doesn't struggle as they tie his hands and drag him into one of the tents to stand before the council.

"Please, send for Spock. I have pressing news about the army's intent," he pleads. The council whispers amongst themselves and Jim's not sure just how much English they understand. He needs Spock to not only verify his character but make sure nothing he has to say gets lost in translation. One of the braves is sent out and all Jim can do is hope he got through to them.

It takes about three hours but Spock does come rushing in the tent. For a brief moment he looks angry when he finally lays eyes on Kirk but it vanishes leaving the all too familiar blank stare Jim's been staring at all morning.

"What are you doing here?" demands Spock, storming over to him.

Jim raises his bound hands helplessly. "Do you think you could..."

Spock grabs a hold of his bound hands and begins untying the rope. "What are you doing here?" he repeats, low and dangerous. His grip is tighter than the ropes been and threatens to do more damage.

Jim licks his lips and steels his courage. The fallout no matter what he does is going to be devastating but he's never shied away from danger before and he's not going to start now. His life has been lived mere inches ahead of a rockslide as he rockets towards the bottom of the mountain. "These negotiations are a set up. The army is planning to slaughter your people and take the land."

The air is sucked out of the room as everyone freezes like statues, doubt and mistrust dancing in their eyes. Jim squares his shoulder and boldly faces Spock, shows no fear as the Vulcans scrutinize every inch of his being to determine if he should be found wanting. The soft whispers start amongst the council, the internal debate realized as they offer theory and conjecture about their possible impending doom.

Jim's overcome with the need to beg forgiveness. He's hasn't done anything wrong, has no plans to harm these people but he heralds their destruction. Someone needs to apologise for the short comings of his people and their complete disregard for the lives that will be forever destroyed and he's the only one here.

"You are lying," states Spock. There's a hurt there, a denial, dying to surface that can't quite escape the Vulcan exterior.

Jim wished he was; he knows the pain of losing everything. He shakes his head. "I'm not. They're going to wait until the council arrives tomorrow morning to move the men up and attack. There'll be no one left when they're done."

The council erupts in discussion.

"It is illogical to risk peace on the word of an unknown."

"We never should have trusted them."

"We must take action to protect our people and our sacred lands; there is nowhere else to go."

"If we stand against them we cannot logically expect victory."

"He lies. If we react to this claim they will have ample reason to take violent measures against us."

Spock never looks away, doesn't even blink and Jim gets lost in the dark assessment of his eyes. A small tremor runs through him as Spock's hand rests gently on his face; he hadn't been aware that Spock moved a muscle let alone moved his hand to Jim's face without him realizing it. A chill runs through Kirk, like stepping into tepid water and he feels like he and Spock are the only people in the universe, the rest of the world washing away into the gentle calm of nothingness. He holds fast, fear begging to move but curiosity rooting him in place.

It last but a moment, then Spock is stepping away, his hand dropping by his side. Jim feels a little dizzy, wavering on his feet for a moment as the world comes back into sharp focus.

"He is telling the truth," insists Spock as he addresses the council.

"You have to leave, now, somewhere they won't bother to look for awhile. It's the land they're after, if you're not on it they'll have no reason to follow," informs Jim.

The council resumes whispering amongst themselves again. "It will take a day to pack up that which is important to our people and organize them to leave. We will start preparations right away," says one member of council.

"Tomorrow will be too late," corrects Jim. "You have to go now."

"Our people have lived on these lands since the dawn of time. We cannot simple walk away. Preparations must be made, artifacts protected. We will need a day," states the council, firm and unyielding.

"What about the Chief Sarek and the negotiation party?" asks Spock. "They must be informed about this betrayal."

One of the eldest council members stands up. "If the negotiation party is informed they will return here, alerting the army to our plans. They will have to remain there until the settlement is on the move."

If it's possible, Spock straightens even more. "You mean to leave them as a buffer between the army and the settlement?"

"The negotiation party will buy time for our people to escape. Their predicament is unfortunate, but sacrifices must be made if our people are to survive. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few."

Jim makes an aborted noise in the background as the council gives him a stern look at trying to butt into a private conversation. He can't help but think of his own family and what lengths he would go to to save them before the rest of any community he's ever been a part of.

Spock's head bows for a moment before he addresses the council again. "I request permission to join my father again."

"That is illogical."

"They are my parents," insists Spock.

Jim isn't familiar with Vulcan nuance, but he understands sacrifice and he certainly understands the desire to save family. He knows what this play is. His face lights up as inspiration strikes. "I know how I can buy everyone time to escape."

* * *

The council sends them on their way, not completely supportive of Kirk's idea but anything is better than nothing. If there's a chance to save as many lives as possible, Jim's going to take it no matter what anyone else says.,

Spock marches through the settlement with purpose and determination that Jim hasn't seen until now. The man was taciturn before but it's even worse now. Jim follows behind a step like a duckling following its mother.

"What the hell was that back there?" he asks, equal parts curious, and irritated and driven by adrenaline.

Spock never slows his stride. "Vulcans call it a mind meld. It is a deeply spiritual, cultural and private practice among my people. We do not talk about it with outsiders." It's a clear dismissal as anything.

Kirk slows pointing to himself then back at the tent. "But you just..." starts Jim rather unarticulated as his mind still struggles to comprehend exactly what the hell happened.

"It was necessary. We will not speak of it again."

"But..."

Spock stops abruptly and turns to glare at Kirk, eyebrow raised in curiosity, irritation and with a faint hint of a dare for Jim to keep running his mouth. Jim's mouth clicks shut before Spock continues on towards the horses.

"Your people are weird," he mutters under his breath before jogging to catch up to Spock.

* * *

Thank god for Scotty. All Jim has to do is ask and the Scotsman supplies him with explosives and any ammunition he could safely abscond and never asks any questions he knows Jim wouldn't answer. As much as Jim wants a friend in all of this, he can't in good conscience drag anyone into this that can safely stay out. He takes his weapons and loads a cart. He tries very hard not to acknowledge the countdown ticking away in his mind.

* * *

The thing is, Jim doesn't know how deep the plan goes. Pike recommended him for this mission but he can't reconcile what he knows about his mentor against what it would take to be a willing part of this crime that he himself has been blind part to. If he knew nothing of what was going to happen here today, how can he be sure his fellow officers, his men, know anything about it. As far as everyone wearing a uniform is concerned Jim Kirk is raising arms against his own people.

With the explosives in place he waits the fifteen minutes Spock asked for, fifteen minutes to explain to the chief that they'd been lied to and everything they hoped to achieve by breaking bread with the Whiteman was nothing more than a pipe dream.

His thumb hovers over the detonation trigger. For the first time Jim has a life, he wakes up every morning with a purpose and a goal that are bigger than himself. If he presses the button, all that is gone but innocent lives will be spared. He tries really hard not to compare his dilemma to his father; who stood for what was right and then didn't stand at all. He thinks about his mother, and his brother for the first time in years and wonders if they'll miss him not being in the world, if they'll understand what he did or if they'll even know at all.

Screw it, he's always managed to land on his feet, however this ends, he'll make the most of it.

He presses the button, igniting the explosives and blasting a trench so big that the cavalry is going to have a hell of a time getting the troops across. The world erupts with the sound of gunfire and calls of attack. The swirl of chaos pits men against each other; the Vulcans fighting as best they can but no more than a painful deterrent against the well stocked and armed might of the army. What started as a peaceful camp for negotiating a land agreement is a bloody covered field. Jim grabs his rifle and does what he can. He aims for legs and arms, to disable men and tries not kill anyone; they're just falling orders and protocol with no idea of the bigger crime here.

Jim catches a glimpse of a group of Vulcans on horseback, preparing to head west back towards the Vulcan settlement and where ever their people will head next. There seems to be an unnaturally large number of men in the area, for both sides, considering the majority of force for each side are still at their base camps. He's not entirely well versed in Vulcan culture but the war paint some of them are sporting doesn't seem quite right. The fact that they are attacking other Vulcans screams something more sinister is taking place than Jim originally understood.

His heart practically stops when he catches a glimpse of a ghost out of the past and has to blink twice to make sure he really is seeing who he thinks. That face has haunted his dreams since he was a little boy and it makes his skin itch to watch Nero stand with the army and gun down defenceless Vulcans.

He shifts his weight from foot to foot, indecision taking hold. Nero is on the battlefield, within reach. He could pursue, go after Nero and avenge his father or he can stay and make sure the Vulcans have a chance to escape. He feels like he's lost in the murky blackness of sea, unsure just how big the body of water he's drowning in is. The fact that Nero has anything to do with this, with the army that he's spent the best years of his life a part of, makes his skin want to crawl. The councilman's words echo in his ear, ' _the needs of the many...'_ and as much as Jim wants to watch the light die in Nero's eyes, he knows he'd be no better than the man himself if he did it at the Vulcan's expense.

He blows the next set of explosives creating chaos and giving the Vulcans the distraction they need to leave camp. Something settles deep inside of Jim as he realizes he's the only one left standing against the army and the second they figure it out in haze of battle, it will all be over for him.

Surprisingly, Jim finds it kind of calming.

The moment is ruined as Spock appears, horse leaping out of a billow of smoke as it jumps over a burning wagon, rains to a second horse in his hand. "Get on!" he shouts, forcing his horse to stop while he passes the other horse over to Kirk.

Jim can't help the stupid grin that splits his face as he gratefully gets on the horse. They take off North, away from the Vulcans' retreat and the army's goal. He can feel the bullets whiz by, the heat from the flames; the thick smoke of gunpowder burns his eyes and threatens to choke him. They've almost cleared the battle ground when something explodes, apparently Jim wasn't the only one to raid Scotty's stash. Everything Jim thought he knew about his life is buried under smoke and ash.


	2. Kirk pt 2

Jim pulls his legs to his chest and wraps his arms around himself the best he can given the limited mobility the shackles allow, to ward off the cold chill of night. His cell is small a single wooden room with a window heavy with bars, and a small pile of hay to rest his head on. He was dragged to the nearest fort to stand charges for treason and tossed in a shack no bigger than an outhouse with a clear view of the gallows just beyond his window.

His hearing hadn't taken more than thirty minutes, with a simple guilty and death at dawn for his trouble. He stood fast as the brass explained how disappointed they were in him, how he let everyone down including Pike, sinned against the uniform and all it stands for; and what would his father think? He hadn't said a word when they denied him food or a blanket. If they wouldn't listen to his defense, they certainly don't care about his comfort now. Now, listening to his executioner stumble around making preparations for dawn, he feels small and alone. His consolation prize is Spock still managed to escape. Now he's going to die for a crime he didn't technically commit and worse, Nero is still alive. His father will go un-avenged and that's worse than the noose he's going to face. Suddenly the gray area that he's chosen to operate his life isn't as comforting as the dull streaks of dawn crack the night sky open.

He doesn't regret saving the Vulcans, that was the right thing to do, but he imagined his end would be quick, a decisive bullet in the heat of battle not a long drawn out wait to meet the same fate his father had. Kirks' clearly have a calling in life.

He zones out with the click of the lock on the door turning to allow the guards to enter. Jim takes a deep fortifying breath and gets to his feet, on auto-pilot as his feet shuffle to his doom to the jingle of chains. His heart pounds in his chest, made all the louder by the slow steady rhythm of the army drums singing his fate. It's quite a turn out, everyone piling into the square to get a look at Jim Kirk's death; officers smiling and men looking remorseful but accepting. Jim can't say there's a friend in the bunch and isn't sure what that says about the situation or himself.

The trumped up charges are read aloud, a reminder and a warning against anyone else that gets the bright idea to go against progress's will and capital's plans. Human life is meaningless to development that's steam rolling the land and morally right is just an innocent casualty of the war that's going to play out in the next few years.

Jim stops at the top of the platform and allows the executioner's hands to guide him into position. He spares a moment to look at his options, to find a way out of this mess but his brain's too numb to come out with a last minute effort to save his own skin. He swallows hard as the rope is placed around his neck, tightened in preparation. The executioner lifts the black cloth to cover his eyes but Jim shakes his head. He's never been afraid before and he won't start now; he'll look death in the face and smile for as long as he can.

The officers looking on in glee turn their heads to avoid the glare Kirk gives him, blue eyes unrelenting and deadly. Jim will make sure they see the ends to their good work, make sure they have the stomach for it if they're going to use him as their scapegoat. The slaughter of an innocent tribe looks bad when spoken allowed and not whispered in the shadows; a rogue soldier stirring up trouble sounds so much better in the circulating papers.

The drums beat faster and Jim takes a deep breath, calms his nerves and thinks it's all worth it, even if it led here. He blinks the moisture out of his eyes. The drums stop and he exhales, the silence suffocating as he waits for the floor to drop out from under his feet.

The executioner falls face first onto the wooden deck of the platform, a neat arrow sticking out of his back. Jim's vision grays around the edges; he's forgotten how to breathe and the dead body at his feet isn't making any sense.

The world explodes with sound, gun fire, horses, shouts, all the sounds of what could be an epic bar fight or shoot out spilling through the square. The audience scrambles away like ants seeking cover or arms. The dead bodies are piling up as horses dance around carrying Vulcan braves unleashing a barrage of arrows on the masses.

This isn't how Jim pictured heaven or hell; figured he'd probably feel the rope tighten before existence faded to something else. He can't make sense of what's playing out before him. His hands and feet are still shackled and the thick coarse rope secured around his neck, leaving him helpless to do anything, even remove himself from his precarious situation. The Vulcans should be miles away but here they are ransacking the fort. Bodies dropping left and right and some getting terribly close to hitting the lever that's going to leave Jim with nothing to stand on.

"Spock?" chokes out Jim, surprised and relieved to see him riding towards the platform. He's never been so grateful to see the stoic Vulcan before in his life.

Spock gracefully jumps from the horse to the platform, his bow coming up to block the blow from one of the guards who scrambled up the platform to finish the executioner's job. Jim can only try and dance out of the way as they trade blows but his leash isn't long enough to keep him out of the way.

Kirk trips over his own feet, the rope catching him before he can hit the ground. His hands fly to his neck to try and earn some slack on the rope. "Spock," he wheezes, frantic and desperate.

Spock spares him a glance. Reaching behind his back he pulls free a tomahawk and slams it against the wooden support beam severing the rope. He can't spare a moment more to aid Kirk, as Spock's opponent pulls a knife of his own.

The tension disappears and Jim face plants on the platform gratefully sucking in air. He worms his fingers between the rope and his neck, painstakingly working the knot to loosen the noose enough to slip over his head. It's difficult to get his feet underneath him being shackled but he manages. He shakes his head to ward off the dizziness making the ground spin and takes a few staggering steps forward. He throws his weight against Spock's opponent, knocking him off the platform.

Spock places a steadying hand on Kirk's shoulder. "Are you alright?"

"Will be, once we get out of here." He rubs his hand against his throat, the phantom feeling of the rope making him feel like he's choking.

"Agreed." Spock glances around the fort at the destruction surrounding them. The Vulcan way is a typically peaceful way but the army took that away from them. The council was against sending braves to the fort of all places, but Chief Sarek had over ruled them, with the logic of repaying their debt to Kirk and strengthening their relationship with a potential ally. It didn't guarantee the raiding party the full force of the Vulcan people and while they had the element of surprise on their side, to stay much longer will incur heavy casualties.

Spock whistles, loud and sharp over the sounds of battle and Jim flinches at the noise. Spock's horse runs directly towards its master, coming to stand next to the platform. Spock grabs Kirk and despite his protest, throws Jim over the horse before climbing on himself.

It's an undignified escape to be slumped over a horse like a blanket but Jim's too happy to be alive and getting a chance to fight another day to care. As they ride out of the fort and everything Jim's known, he flips death off; the reaper will have to wait to get his prize.

* * *

"You're sure about this?" asks Jim hesitantly. He can't help the fidgeting his weariness is causing.

Spock tilts his head to the side, a frustrated look creeping across his face. "Hold still," he reminds Kirk.

"Yeah, but..." whines Jim, pulling his hands out of position and into his lap.

Spock grabs his shackled hands and places them back over the smooth surface of the stone. "There is only a twelve point seven-three percent chance I will miss _if_ you keep still."

"That's a twelve percent chance I lose a hand!" argues Jim.

"The likelihood of death from being captured by the army for having a blacksmith remove the shackles is far greater than the risk of losing a hand if we pursue this option."

Jim opens his mouth to continue his protest of removing his shackles this way when sound of someone approaching pulls his attention. Just as a horse comes into view around the bend the shape ping of metal connecting with metal reverberates off the rocky terrain. He turns back to Spock, who could almost be accused of smirking and lifts up his hand. Remarkably, not only is his hand free of the shackle but unmaimed.

"Now the other one," commands Spock grabbing Jim's left wrist. He spares a moment to nod at the approaching riders before he continues liberating his co-conspirator.

By the time Kirk's hands and feet are free of the chains, limbs still attached, the Vulcan riding party has dismounted. "Live long and prosper," greets Chief Sarek with the customary Vulcan hand salute but the words seem heavier now that they've lost their home. Sarek's eyes settle on Jim. "The Vulcan people are grateful for your service."

He glances down, uncomfortable. It wasn't the most successful job, he knows they suffered heavy casualties despite the warning and distraction. "I did what anyone would have done," offers Jim, soft and gentle. "You saved my life. I owe you gratitude."

Sarek looks at him skeptically. They both know everyone had a chance and chose to do the opposite in this scenario. "We are heading west to an ancient hunting land long abandoned by our people. We believe it is still unclaimed and will seek to make it home once again. There are no settlements that far out yet, so it is reasonable to expect peace for a little while. You are welcome to join us Jim Kirk; the army will continue to hunt you making it illogical to return to your people."

"Thank you for the offer Chief," starts Jim. The offer has merit. He'll spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder if he doesn't go into hiding, but he can't let Nero win. The man is still hurting people and Jim won't stand for it. "But I have unfinished business. The man that murdered my father was a part of this and I need to figure out why and then kill him."

Sarek nods his head in understanding. "You will always be welcome among our people." He turns to head back to his horse but stops and turns.

For the first time, Jim realizes Spock is still standing next to him and shows no signs of taking his leave.

"Spock?" asks the Chief. There's concern and worry in his eyes.

Spock takes a deep breath. "No father. The officers recognized me, they will be searching for me as well as Lieutenant Kirk. My accompanying you will only put our people in danger. And mother's killer is still out there. I understand our people find no logic in revenge but I believe where mother is concerned, I will adopt the custom of revenge that her people employ. I also feel it is my duty to help Kirk see his mission through to help nullify the debt our people owe him."

Chief Sarek looks like he wants to protest but simply bows his head instead. "Live long and prosper, my son," he says before taking his leave with the rest of the Vulcan riders.

Jim watches them ride out of sight. "Are you sure Spock? You can still go with them." He's kind of grateful to have someone by his side; Spock proved to be a valuable asset but he would understand taking the chance of a life over what awaits if he does follow Jim.

"Yes," is all Spock says before mounting his horse and offering Jim his hand.

* * *

"What the hell are you doing here?" shouts the mocha firecracker as she slams her knife into the table Kirk and Spock are sitting at with tremendous force.

Spock raises his eyebrow at the display that has gotten the momentary attention of the other patrons in the seedy and smoky saloon. It's hardly the low key, non attention grabbing, spectacle they were hoping for.

Jim flinches as the force in which the knife is embedded in the table mere inches from his hand reverberates through him. He swallows hard as he quickly recalculates if the information is worth her wrath because for the record, he likes all his body parts attached where they are. "It's nice to see you too, Uhura. Still delightful as ever I see," says Jim with as much bravado as he can muster while thinking of all the things she promised to do to him with that knife the last time they crossed paths.

Uhura crosses her arms and glares at Kirk with an expression that screams 'make it good, or so help you.'

Jim straps on his most dazzling smile and cranks up the charm a couple of watts. "This is Spock." He points his thumb towards the Vulcan beside him, ever mindful of just how close the blade is to his hand.

Uhura glares for a second more before turning her attention entirely to Spock. Her shoulders relax and she extends hand giving the Vulcan salute warmly. "I'm Uhura," she says with warmth before turning her icy glare back on Kirk. Her hostility promises Jim has about a minute to live unless he fills that time with meaningful words.

Jim kicks out the empty chair at their table, relieved when Uhura takes a seat and the rest of the onlookers go back to their own conversations and card games. "I'm in trouble," starts Jim.

"What a surprise," huffs Uhura. "Who is she this time?"

Jim kind of resents that that's the first place Uhura goes, like the only thing he has going in life is ducking out women's windows to avoid their husbands when they come home. Although to be fair, that's exactly what he was doing when he last saw her, but in his defense, he didn't know she was married. Jim may have pretty shady morals sometimes but he makes it a point to not destroy the happiness of families. "It's not like that." He has this feeling that Spock is judging him and it's making him tense on all sides. "We need to get through the Tellarite lands. You're the only one I know that can negotiate our passage."

"Go around," counters Uhura. The Tellarite are notoriously elusive, except when people trespass on their land, which combined with their willingness for bloodshed and the natural inhospitably of the land makes it better to avoid the trail. The trail through their territory is however takes two weeks off a person's journey and allows anyone brave enough to traverse it to be left alone in their travels.

"We can't. Besides every bounty hunter in the territory looking for us, the whole army is gunning for us as well."

Uhura leans back in her chair, a wicked grin melting her features. "Only James Kirk would do something so monumentally stupid, the whole army would be after him."

"Despite what Lieutenant Kirk's reputation would suggest, our current predicament is the result of his attempt to foil the army's plans to slaughter the Vulcan people in order to obtain our land under the guise of peaceful negotiation," interjects Spock.

A ripple of sadness washed over Uhura, leaving sympathy painted across her delicate features. "The army wiped out the Vulcans?" she breathes so quiet it's almost lost in the noise of the saloon.

"They tried. Mostly succeeded," mumbles Jim, sinking into his seat and throwing back the last dredges in his glass. The self-incrimination is evident in every line of his body.

Uhura locks eyes with Spock, her hand falling gently on his for a moment as she says, "I'm so sorry."

Spock pulls his hand back slowly, uncomfortable with not only the touch but the magnitude of attention from what amounts to a complete stranger. "Jim did manage to ensure survivors that are currently relocating in the hopes of rebuilding our tribe."

"We need to lose some bounty hunters and gain some distance and you're the only one I know that can help us get through Tellarite territory. Please, Uhura, we need your help," says Jim, hoping to gain some compassion from Uhura without calling in the favor she owes him. He'd rather save that for when she's really going to dismember him.

The Vulcan card does the trick, tugging at whatever heartstrings Uhura keeps hidden because not only does she agree to get them through the territory but Uhura rides with them. Her innate talent for languages and culture means they can stick to the routes less travelled, out of sight from people looking to cash in on the bounty on their heads and who hate the army as much as they do.

* * *

"Hold it right there," orders Jim leveling his gun at the slightly graying head that comes into view. The click of the hammer sliding back drives his point home; he has no compunction about using the gun. The man raises his hands in surrender slowly turning around to get a good look at Kirk.

"Jim," he nods in acknowledgement. It wasn't the warm greeting he had been expecting but given the circumstances it's better than being shot on sight. "You really stepped in it this time kid." Trouble and Jim have always seemed to go hand in hand, so he can't say he's surprised to find Kirk at the center of the biggest shit storm in the last decade. There's no condemnation in his voice; a leopard can't change its spots any more than Jim can play the role of society sheep. Christopher had thought the brash and violent rebellion phase had passed in the last couple of years that he watched Jim grow into a fine upstanding officer but it was apparently the calm before the storm.

There's a subtle rustling sound coming from the other side of the stair case and Pike turns his head. "Spock," he greets as he catches sight of the Vulcan undercover of the other wall in the old rustic cabin.

Spock's gun doesn't waver but his eyebrow arches in curiosity. "I do not believe we've been acquainted."

"You come to bring us in, Captain Pike?" demands Jim, gravel in his voice, returning the attention back to himself. He doesn't want to gun down his friend and mentor but very clear lines have been drawn in the sand; it's the world versus him and Spock and he's not going to lay down and die for some misguided notion of friendship. The weeks of running and being dogged by every bounty hunter and lawman have taken their toll burning up any compassion he might have had. He's tired and running out of ideas.

"No," is Pike's simple answer. He slumps a little, going for a more casual appearance, less threatening.

Jim takes a step out of the shadows and his relative cover behind the wall, "How'd you find us?"

"Jim," sighs Pike, and it sounds a little frustrated, "there isn't anything I don't know about you." It has the virtue of being mostly true. He's been there since the beginning, when a starry-eyed George told him he's met a girl and was going to leave the army to settle down with this girl that made the moon and the stars shine. Pike had continued with his military career but he'd made a point to check in on the little family when passing through, watching it grow from two, to three, to four and then back to three. He'd been the one that held a teary-eyed yet stoic six year old Jim's hand as they lowered George's coffin into the ground. He knows all Jim's haunts and _friends_ , where he runs and why. The only thing he can't accurately account for is the sheer depths of the kid's balls and stupidity, but he isn't ever surprised by it.

Jim stands his ground and fights, so he had to still be in the area. He isn't stupid, despite the kid's best efforts to convince everyone he is, so he couldn't run anywhere obvious. That left Pike with a very narrow trail to zero in on. Winona's mother's old childhood home is far enough removed from both society and the Kirk name that unless someone was told, it's doubtful anyone would ever venture this far to look for two wanted criminals.

"What do you want?" Jim snaps, fingers tightening on the gun. If this is some friendly 'I'm your Captain and we can work this out together if you just come back and explain your side of things' conversation, he wants no part of it. This runs to deep to be talked out and Jim's not sure he wants to. He wants blood, he wants Nero's head and won't get that if he walks back into the hands of the organization that not only allied with the man but willingly put a rope around Jim's neck.

Pike nods his head towards the table, a sorry excuse for a meal, hastily interrupted lying scattered across it. "Why don't we sit down and talk about this, son."

Jim scowls. "Nothing to talk about." He's torn between the possible pending danger and the over familiarity his lifetime with Pike that wants to pull him into a false sense of security.

Pike shrugs his shoulders and cautiously takes slow measured steps toward a chair at the table. "When the army tells me my best Lieutenant insights mutiny and starts a savage uprising destroying any hope for peace with the Vulcans, I like to find out what the army did wrong."

Jim scrutinises every inch of Pike, searching for the trap he knows is laid out for him. Reluctantly, he holsters his gun and takes the chair opposite Pike. He leans back with his arms folded across his chest, hostility at the world rolling off of him in waves.

Spock takes a step further into the room but doesn't lower his weapon. Pike tries to ignore his systematic sweeping of the room for threats with his eyes.

"I sent you on that mission because I thought seeing negotiations first hand might teach you some humility and the virtue of subtly." He picks up a hard misshapen blob that looks like it might pass for a biscuit and gives it a tentative sniff before hazarding a bit. "Imagine my surprise when I hear it all goes to hell, the formerly peaceful Vulcans have scattered to the wind after a bloody skirmish with the army and Jim Kirk is being hanged for treason, only to escape in a blaze of glory facilitated... are you ready for this part?" asks Pike looking serious.

Jim chews on his lip, looking cross and everywhere but at Pike.

"The son of the Vulcan chief." He glances at Spock but the Vulcan doesn't seem to be any more inclined to enlighten Christopher than Kirk. Pike has all the patience in the world; he can wait Kirk out if that's what it takes. "You're going to have to trust someone some time Jim."

"We weren't there to negotiate anything," mutters Kirk. "It was a set up to kill the Vulcans and steal their land so the railway can come through. I don't know how high up the plan goes but it was sanctioned. Guess it's bad business for the world to find out we're starting the wars with the Indians so they pinned it to look like I started it when I warned the Vulcans of the impending attack. Seems Nero brokered a deal to help facilitate it. He was there and I didn't do anything. " The words come tumbling out of his mouth faster and faster. It's one thing to know the truth but he didn't know how much he needed someone to believe him until he was spewing the tale to Pike.

Christopher is quiet for a painfully long time. The silence chips away at Jim's soul. This was Pike's life, the organization he's breathed and bled for. It would be a simple matter to dismiss everything Jim claims and pretend the status quo is still in place, if not for the simplicity of not having to deal with the sheer mass of those culpable then to save his conscience soul from the lies that now haunt every order executed and decision made.

"Well the first thing, is you're going to get a good night's sleep because you look like you're going to fall over, then we're going to have a decent cooked meal because this..." he gestures to the attempt at food on the plate, "is just sad." Pike uses his command voice, leaving no room for argument. "We'll work out a plan about what to do after that."

Jim nods his consent and Spock finally holsters his gun. Whatever Pike decides to do about them, it's tomorrows problem; today promises the first night of real rest since things started. Jim's too tired to turn this down.

Pike has two men with him, ones he trusts implicitly, waiting in town. He'll ride out and get them while Jim sleeps and bring back all the makings of a good meal; his man Sulu is apparently a wonderful cook.

"I don't suppose you'd consider the easy way out and let me get you as far away from here as possible?" asks Chris, as he dumps Jim onto the bed.

Jim shakes his head as he relaxes on the blankets. Now that he's horizontal the energy that's been keeping him going is fading fast. He doesn't have the reserves that Spock does at this point. "Can't walk away," he mumbles tiredly, eyes already slipping shut. "Not while Nero's still out there."

A little smile creases Pike's lips. He knew the answer before he asked the question but he still had to give the kid an out. He wants nothing more than to spare what's coming for Kirk, what vengeance, revenge and survival are going to do to George and Winona's little boy. He's going to protect Jim for as long as possible and if that means waging war on the world, then that's what he'll do. He has to step up his game from what it used to be.

* * *

Pike has some loose ends to tie up and information to get before he loses all touch with the army and any ability he has to lawfully help Jim. He takes his men, Sulu and Chekov with him with plans to meet in two weeks time. It's plenty of time for Jim and Spock to follow up on a lead that Pike was able to give them in regards to valuable documents that could help steer them towards Nero and his accomplices while Uhura goes on a head to scout out locations for a possible base camp.

It's a lucky break on two fronts. Not only do they get the information but he runs into Scotty again. Jim's glad that the Vulcan incident hasn't left the Scotsman too worse for wear. Scotty's talents are hard to pass up, so he's relieved when Montgomery agrees to tag along. It's not the greatest repayment he can offer for Scotty being kicked out of the army, hunting Nero promises death, but it is purpose and direction, all the things Scotty seemed to be missing lately. Jim always likes having a good drinking partner around.

It's the first real step Jim's ever taken in his life to actually take Nero down. It's nice to have people willing to have his back while he leads this charge and he thinks they may actually accomplish their task. He has Pike's guidance and Spock's logic to temper his hand and curve his brashness that would most likely lead the plan to ruin. One way or another Nero has touched all of their lives and now they have a common goal to keep them united. They establish a base camp far away from civilization but pretty central to the cluster of towns in the area. Their nefarious activities don't offer gainful employment so they're reduced to less than honest means requiring access to stagecoach and train routes and towns they can loot supplies and skills from.

There is no turning back from this path, because Nero knows they're coming now. Jim doesn't think he'd want to turn away even if he could. It's dangerous and deadly and so far from the side of right he's not sure he can see the line clearly anymore. They're outside the law now, viewed as no better than the man they're trying to bring down. It's the most fun Jim's had in years. He kind of knows this is where he was always going to end up anyways. His future's tight around his neck like the noose Nero put around his father's, only Jim's going to do what George couldn't. Jim Kirk is going to restore law in the land by killing Nero.

* * *

 ** _Thank you to everyone who read this story and/or commented, you're the best._**  
 ** _Thanks to CaptainNinapants for beta reading this story._**

 **Next story: Spock's The Fallacies of Logic**


	3. Spock

**The Fallacies of Logic**

It's hard not to notice the difference between his mother and the rest of the tribe and by extension, Spock himself. Amanda's differences are more obvious, on the surface; it's in her appearance, the way she speaks, and how she acts. While Spock appears Vulcan to outsiders, his peers take every chance to remind him that he is not entirely Vulcan and therefore less by some imaginary standard. He studies just as hard as the other children, goes to great lengths to speak as they do and hide the unintentional emotionalism in his words that he picked up from his mother.

His father, Sarek, tells him it's illogical to give credence to the other children's claims, while his mother gives him a soft sad smile and hugs him even tighter before distracting him with some activity the two of the can do. They mostly play chess and after a couple of years Amanda no longer wins their matches, but she glows brighter with pride at each consecutive loss.

While Spock doesn't believe he belongs anywhere else, he's very aware that he might not fit in with his people either. As the children get older the open disdain for him grows muffled but never completely gone. The fact that his father is the Chief only heightens the separation between himself and his peers. As much as an outsider as he feels, he can't begin to fathom the loneliness his mother must experience at never being able to return to her tribe - her family.

Spock has vague memories of the trip he took with his mother at five years of age back west to a settlement called Dodge. It was a long arduous ride to reach the first town, a journey his father declined to take with them. The town was fascinating and so different than the Vulcan village in which he lived. There was an underlying wave of motion and hustle and bustle that seemed to drive the people as they scurried around the town like ants foraging. It was intimidating compared to the movements of his own home, like the calm, steady, precise river that runs alongside it, and he holds his mother's hand even tighter to not get swept away.

They take a stagecoach to the next town which is an interesting way to travel, but it pales in comparison to the train they catch when they reach town. He spends the whole time asking his mother about the mechanics of the train, oblivious to the glares and strange looks the other passengers give them as he prattles on in his native language. After being on the train for several days, they switch to a steamboat which is just as fascinating and requires just as many questions.

Amanda smiles fondly when she stops having the answers and laughs. "Your mind never stops, does it Spock?" Spock wishes his father had accompanied them just so he could answer the technical questions that his mother has no explanation for.

It takes another stagecoach once they get off the boat before they finally arrive at their intended destination and wait. The sun begins its long journey to kiss the mountains in the distance and his mother's reassuring smiles get more and more forced. It seems illogical to come all this way just to sit on the steps of the post office but Spock can't bring himself to pester his mother with anymore questions. Her emotional state is becoming harder to ignore but he lacks the ability to understand why she is so visibility distressed, so he decides it's in their best interests to remain quiet.

The day finally ends and his mother drags him along to a hotel. The whole situation is odd, the customs unfamiliar, and he tries to catalogue and understand everything he sees. This is where his mother comes from; it might offer insight into the facets of her person he hasn't been able to decipher.

The next day they resume their place on the post office steps, invisible to the world that passes them by. "What are we doing mother?" he asks, failing to see the point in their task. Perhaps if he understands what they are trying to accomplish he can assist his mother better than simply being her shadow.

"Waiting for your grandfather, Spock."

His grandfather doesn't show but Amanda seems to recognize one of the men in town and arranges to have him take them out to the farm. Unlike the other children Spock knows, the man doesn't say a word but never takes his eyes off of Spock. Spock may not understand or use feelings but he can sense the unspoken judgement being directed at him by his mother's friend.

It takes a few hours to arrive at their destination and Spock is content to sit in the back of the wagon and take in the scenery while his mother engages in sporadic and often strained conversation with the man. His mother doesn't show displeasure often, but he can sense it simmering in her now. She had been happy to take this trip but as each hour passes on their journey, her enthusiasm is becoming more strained. It's the complexity of emotions like this that make Vulcan logic feel more comfortable for Spock.

Spock trails behind her as she marches up to the farmhouse, small and quaint compared to the residences that were built in town, as a man steps out onto the porch. A woman stands behind him in the door way, keeping her distance and based on the features he can make out, Spock assumes she must be his grandmother.

"We arrived yesterday, you know," snaps Amanda coming to a stop at the bottom of the porch steps, arms crossed and lips pursed.

The man takes a long assessing gaze at Amanda before turning his attention to Spock.

"What's he doing here?" asks the man in a lazy drawl.

"I told you we were coming. I want you to meet your grandson," counters Amanda.

His grandfather shakes his head. "That ain't no kin of mine."

Amanda warps her arms around Spock and pulls him close in front of her. "This is my son Spock, daddy. You and mamma better get used to that idea."

Spock knows very little about his mother's family other than a few stories she's shared and how she always looks pained when speaking about them. He does recognize the look he's receiving now though; the look that says he's only masquerading as though he belongs, a child of two worlds but belonging to none. He's not Vulcan enough to be Vulcan and by the reception he's getting now, he's too Vulcan to be one of the masses.

"Don't gotta get used to anything. I told you before Amanda you have a choice. You wanna go savage, that's your choice. You're always welcome home if you chose to come back to civilization but that thing ain't welcome around here. They're not god's children and won't have him taint this home with his savagery."

"He's not a savage; he's a little boy, daddy, _my_ little boy. And if he's not welcome then I dare say, you and mamma won't see me again."

A heavy silence crawls over the farm as they await an answer. Spock wants to argue the illogical nature of his grandfather's claims but doesn't think logic can solve this problem. It seems like neither is going to budge, despite the fact that Spock is indeed his grandson, it doesn't look like he's welcome here. As much as he knows it pains his mother to walk away from her family, she takes his hand in hers and says, "Come on Spock, it's time to go _home_." They walk back to the wagon and begin their long journey back to Vulcan territory.

His mother looks to be on the verge of tears the whole way back but smiles through it whenever she catches him looking at her. His mother has never denied her emotions despite his father's correction of them and the discomfort by his tribe as a whole with dealing with them. It doesn't make sense to deny them now but watching her try stirs something within him. The closest thing he can connect it to is the concept of pity and wants to ask her if that is right but it doesn't seem like the appropriate time. His mother has just given up everything for him and he wonders if it pains her to constantly watch him deny all the pieces of himself that belong to her.

* * *

The settlement is alive with discussion about the coming negotiations with the army representatives. There's reservation about dealing with the white men who have shown nothing but savagery towards other tribes in the past. But a middle ground must be found if both sides want to prosper. The children spend most of their time hypothesising what the strangers will be like based on the stories they have heard while the adults direct their thoughts towards an uncertain future.

The only one who doesn't seem intrigued about the pending visit is Amanda, who has become more withdrawn and quiet since the announcement. If anything Spock would categorize her demeanour as more Vulcan than her normal bubbly enthusiasm. His thoughts turn back to his encounter with his grandparents many years ago and the disappointment that has haunted his mother since that day. She hasn't returned to her home since and Spock wonders what it would be like to be unable to go home. He may not fit in as well as the others in his tribe but he has never not considered these lands and people his home.

His mother hasn't out right said anything against the coming talks, she's simply asked Sarek if he was sure about proceeding. Not a huge action on its own, but she has never questioned his father's decisions before; argued, yes but never questioned the wisdom his logic. Spock himself can see the logic in what they are trying to accomplish but in the same token, if forming an accord returns that look of devastated heartbreak to his mother's face, he irrationally wants to refuse negotiations.

"You seem troubled," says Amanda, interrupting Spock's meditation. "They're not all like your grandfather, you know."

Spock raises an eyebrow. He wonders if all this time spent with Vulcans has infused his mother with the spiritual practice of Vulcan perception. "It is illogical to worry over other's personal opinions of oneself."

"Still, people want to be liked. Sometimes fear makes them act incorrectly. I want you to remember that it's not a reflection of you Spock. You're perfect, Spock, always have been."

"Your assessment of me is flawed by your emotional attachment, mother. Furthermore, our proposed negotiations are not dependant on whether they _like me_."

"One day you'll understand. Love forces you to do the most irrational things and yet you'll find that they are the most desirable and rational things to do." She leans forward and gently kisses his forehead before leaving their tent to join Chief Sarek for afternoon tea.

Spock wants to argue his mother's assessment but has learned through the years that she will cling to her argument no matter the evidence when she claims her heart knows better. The biggest puzzle of all perhaps is why his father chose his mother to be his wife or rather why someone who proudly clings to her emotions would choose to marry a Vulcan.

* * *

The main negotiator is Chief Sarek representing the council of Vulcans with the highest-ranking army officers that come to meet them. The whole army unit shows up to their neutral meeting grounds to witness Vulcan hospitality during the greeting ceremonies before retreating to a base camp, leaving the sacred lands to those that have a voice in the actual negotiations and their advisors.

Spock finds himself engaging with a young Lieutenant named Jim Kirk while the others are speaking in the communal tent, at his mother's instance. He's a chatty man who must be enamoured with the sound of his own voice or has never learned the value of listening before speaking. Despite the verbal spewing, Spock manages to find nuggets of valuable information in regards to culture and the outside world. They discover a mutual interest in chess and Spock declines to share the information that his mother has already taught him the game just to see the look on Kirk's face when he quickly beats him at one of their first games. After that, Jim puts up more of a fight, alternating between playing a more strategic game and resorting to brash and foolish risks to try and throw Spock off his game.

They play chess in the evenings, usually in the main hut the Vulcans are using as a 'town hall', capitalizing on the light of the fire that is kept burning inside. Through their conversations Spock finds he's compelled to share the story of his mother and father's meeting. It's only fair that he divulges that this isn't his first encounter with Kirk's culture and it gives them an even bigger base on which to direct their conversations that slowly become more meaningful and insightful as the days go on.

* * *

The day is quiet, Spock's parents tied up in the talks and Jim Kirk is nowhere to be found, leaving Spock to engage in some actual observations regarding their company. There's order and protocol within the army that appeals to him and he finds it fascinating to watch them engage in the simple acts of saluting, spit and polish and the minor interactions that occur between the men.

The hurried arrival of one of the Vulcan riders pulls his attention. Outsiders wouldn't consider the rider and his conversation with other members of the delegation making a scene, but by Vulcan standards it is. A member of the delegation points to Spock and the rider makes his way over.

"Your presence is required back at the settlement," states the rider, Stonn.

"Who is it that requires my presence?" asks Spock. There's something going on but he lacks all the information to ascertain what.

"The council. The officer Kirk came to our village and is requiring your presence." A small sneer turns Stonn's lip as though he believes Kirk has acted on Spock's orders. Jim leaving the negotiation party and venturing into Vulcan territory is not only a horrific breach of terms but a violation of the relationship they had been building.

Spock nods his acknowledgment and moves to get his horse. The fact that Kirk would do this forms some irrational irritation within Spock. It not only jeopardizes what the Vulcans and the army are trying to do here but it feels personal, that he's bringing Spock into it as well. He tries to formulate a hypothesis on what could motivate Jim to such a breach based on what he knows of the young Lieutenant and finds a horrible sinking feeling forming in his gut that he cannot explain.

When he finally arrives at the settlement Spock rushes into the tent. For a brief moment, he feels angry when he finally lays eyes on Kirk but it vanishes as he clamps down on any emotions that dare cloud his judgment. Emotions will not sit well with the council and have no place in trying to understand and resolve the situation but he'd be lying if he didn't feel what can only be the sting of betrayal. No one from the army is supposed to be this far north and yet Kirk, someone Spock was beginning to think of as an acquaintance, is here. He would hate to think he's been played the fool, that Kirk has taken that tentative trust that has been forming between them and used it for some plot to undermine the peace talks.

"What are you doing here?" demands Spock, storming over to Kirk. He's curt and straight to the point.

Jim raises his bound hands helplessly. "Do you think you could..."

Spock grabs a hold of his bound hands and begins untying the rope. Jim couldn't attack anyone, and if he did it would have been stupid since there are far more Vulcans present than he could possibly hope to overcome. "What are you doing here," he repeats, low and dangerous. His grip is tighter than the ropes had been and threatens to do more damage. Spock will not be so easily trifled with. There better be a good reason for this horrific breach of protocol.

Jim licks his lips and steels his courage. "These negotiations are a set up. The army is planning to slaughter your people and take the land."

The air is sucked out of the room as everyone freezes like statues, doubt and mistrust dancing in their eyes. A chill runs down Spock's spine as he calculates the implication of such a claim.

Jim squares his shoulder and boldly faces Spock, as the Vulcan council scrutinizes every inch of his being to determine if he should be found wanting. The council begins to whisper amongst themselves, the internal debate realized as they offer theory and conjecture about their possible impending doom.

"You are lying," states Spock. There's a hurt there, a denial, dying to surface that can't quite escape the Vulcan exterior. He has an inkling that Jim is telling the truth though, as prosperous as the idea is that the army would put on such a charade. He may not know Kirk well but so far the Lieutenant hasn't displayed any behaviour that would suggest any actions that would spur a lie like this.

Kirk shakes his head. "I'm not. They're going to wait until the council arrives and tomorrow morning move the men up and attack. There'll be no one left when they're done."

The council erupts in discussion.

"It is illogical to risk peace on the word of an unknown."

"We never should have trusted them."

"We must take action to protect our people and our sacred lands; there is nowhere else to go."

"If we stand against them we cannot logically expect victory."

"He lies. If we react to this claim they will have ample reason to take violent measures against us."

Spock never looks away, doesn't even blink as he assesses Kirk, looking for any tell of the lie he hopes has been issued. There is only one way to be sure. Though there are strict rules to its use especially with outsiders, Spock needs to know without a doubt the kind of danger his family could be in. A small tremor runs through Jim as Spock's hand rests gently on his face; he seems unaware that Spock had moved a muscle let alone moved his hand to Jim's face without him realizing it. Spock feels a chill run through Kirk as the universe slowly narrows to just the two of them, the rest of the world washing away into the gentle calm of nothingness. They're both rooted in place as Spock splays him open to find the truth in Kirk's words, like splitting a rock open to find a pocket of water within.

It lasts but a moment and Spock steps away, his hand dropping by his side. It's left him feeling cold. He didn't know just how much he needed Jim to be lying until there was a hundred percent certainty that he wasn't. "He is telling the truth," insists Spock as he addresses the council.

"You have to leave, now, somewhere they won't bother to look for awhile. It's the land they're after and if you're not on it they'll have no reason to follow," informs Jim.

The council resumes whispering amongst themselves again. "It will take a day to pack up that which is important to our people and organize them to leave. We will start preparations right away," says one member of council.

"Tomorrow will be too late," corrects Jim. "You have to go now."

What Kirk is proposing is a sound solution. They are willing to fight to protect their lands but the incursion will produce heavy casualties on both sides with an uncertain outcome. Even if they did win, it would only buy them time, not a permanent solution. The solution, however is not as simple as simply walking away. These lands have meaning and if they must leave their culture and history behind, they will need everything they can take with them.

"Our people have lived on these lands since the dawn of time. We cannot simply walk away. Preparations must be made, artifacts protected. We will need a day," states the council, firm and unyielding.

"What about the Chief Sarek and the negotiation party?" asks Spock. It may not be vital to the survival of his people but his parents are vital to his survival. "They must be informed about this betrayal."

One of the eldest council members stands up. "If the negotiation party is informed they will return here, alerting the army to our plans. They will have to remain there until the settlement is on the move."

Spock straightens even more. "You mean to leave them as a buffer between the army and the settlement?" It is logical for the many but the outcome does not benefit Spock himself nor his parents who are going to be the sacrificial lambs. It stings like betrayal. Spock has a momentary flash back to standing at the bottom of the steps at his grandparents' house as his mother waited, hopefully, desperately for Spock to mean something to them. The loss of his parents is immeasurable, but only to him. He can't fault the council's logic but it doesn't seem to apply to any outcome that is acceptable to him.

"The negotiation party will buy time for our people to escape. Their predicament is unfortunate, but sacrifices must be made if our people are to survive. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few." The statement is a cold, logical assessment and for the first time, Spock finds no comfort in it.

There's no denying his motives are emotion based and he can't find it in himself to care. This is his mother they're talking about; a being so caring and full of light that it shouldn't be diminished so brutally. His father would cite disappointment at Spock's selfishness if he learned Spock chose his own needs over that of his people, and while it would hurt to lose his father he could find comfort in the sheer logic of the actions. He finds no logic in sacrificing his mother. Could she ever truly understand the Vulcan way in this matter? Spock's head bows for a moment before he addresses the council again. "I request permission to join my father again."

"That is illogical."

"They are my parents," insists Spock. If his mother has taught him anything, it's that family doesn't follow logic.

Kirk takes a step forward, his face lightening up as he says, "I know how I can buy everyone time to escape."

* * *

The council sends them on their way, not completely supportive of Kirk's idea but anything is better than nothing. Spock doesn't know if the Lieutenant's plan has any viability but Kirk seems determined to act on it. It's a curious situation. Kirk has nothing to gain by warning the Vulcans nor does he reap any benefit from trying to buy them time to escape. Rationally, he should have kept his mouth shut and let his people do as they planned. This selfless act is not behaviour he's accustomed to when dealing with the white man. Spock has often thought his mother a rarity among her people but it's becoming clear that not everyone is like his grandfather.

He doesn't know enough about Jim to fully calculate the man's motives and betrayal isn't out of the equation yet, but he has a 'feeling' he can trust Kirk. It's an odd sensation, one he'll have to inquire about with his mother. She always has some advice for navigating the rough waters of emotions.

Spock marches through the settlement with purpose and determination. A million scenarios play out in his head but the objective is clear. He must not only warn his parents but see them to safety. His pace is brisk but Jim not only manages to keep up but follows behind a step like a duckling following its mother.

"What the hell was that back there?" Kirk asks, equal parts curious, and irritated and driven by adrenaline.

Spock never slows his stride. "Vulcans call it a mind meld. It is a deeply spiritual, cultural and private practice among my people. We do not talk about it with outsiders." It's a clear dismissal as anything. It must be all foreign to the Lieutenant, much like Spock's journey to meet his mother's family all those years ago. Time is critical though, and he has little to spare to reassure and explain the settlement and their ways to Kirk.

Kirk slows pointing to himself then back at the tent. "But you just..." starts Jim rather unarticulated as his mind still struggles to comprehend exactly what the hell happened.

It was a clear breach of Vulcan custom but a necessary evil. If they live through coming events he might take a moment to shed some light on Vulcan mysticism for Kirk. "It was necessary. We will not speak of it again."

"But..."

Spock stops abruptly and turns to glare at Kirk, eyebrow raised in curiosity, irritation, and with a faint hint of a dare for Jim to keep running his mouth. Kirk clearly doesn't understand the severity of the situation nor the very clear statement to drop the subject. The look seems to convey what his words have failed to, allowing them to continue undeterred by unhelpful questions.

"Your people are weird," Jim mutters under his breath before jogging to catch up to Spock.

Spock makes his way to the coral and gets his and Jim's horses. It's a long ride, plenty of time to discuss what is no doubt a foolhardy plan on Kirk's part, if Spock understands the look Jim gave the council. "How is it you intend to buy time for my people to escape?"

"I know a guy who's handy with explosives. Set some of those off, all the chaos that follows should be enough of a distraction for your people to get a head start on any response the army can pull together."

"If you mean to set off explosives, someone will have to stay behind to press the detonators," points out Spock. The plan has a lot of merit and an acceptable margin of success with one obvious glaring error. Judging by the smile Jim gives him, the Lieutenant is all too aware of the flaw in his plan.

Kirk smiles big and bright, like he just won his fortune on a lucky hand in poker. "Yep."

Whoever arms the explosives runs the risk of being captured. Kirk seems like the highly plausible scenario doesn't bother him and that bothers Spock even more. He makes a mental note to keep an eye on him after he ensures his parents are safe. If there are sacrifices to be made, they should not be Kirk's; these are not his people that need to be saved.

* * *

It's just the two of them placing the explosives. Kirk unwilling to trust anyone in his camp makes an excellent argument for limiting man power to just him and Spock. They wait until the negotiations are paused for a meal break and Chief Sarek and Amanda are back in their own tent before Spock takes his fifteen minutes to go and explain the situation to his parents.

Amanda's smile has the ability to light up a room. Spock has always taken comfort in this trait despite the Vulcan expectation that he shouldn't. Perhaps he enjoys it so because it's a unique sight among his people or maybe because it's most often directed at him and only him when all others use cold logic to acknowledge his differences. "There you are," starts Amanda, all warmth and welcoming, but frowns when she gets a good look at her son. "What's wrong, Spock?"

Sarek turns from his meal to look at his son. Spock stands there for a moment, searching for the right words. "The negotiations are a front for an army plot to annihilate our people and take our lands without protest or compensation."

Amanda gasps, her hand sliding across the table to entwine her fingers in her husband's hand. Sarek weighs his thoughts and calculates the odds of such a move on the part of their 'new found friends'. "How have you come to this conclusion?" he asks.

"Lieutenant Kirk over heard several officers discussing the plot and came to the council to warn us of their pending betrayal," explains Spock.

"Can we be sure that this Lieutenant Kirk speaks the truth?" Sarek questions.

"I preformed a mind meld on the Lieutenant to substantiate his claims. Even without one, my interactions with him indicate that he is an honorable man, father. He is risking much to help us."

"What are we going to do?" asks his mother.

"Kirk is going to detonate a series of explosive to provide a distraction while those still here can retreat and follow the rest of the tribe which has already began the journey to Amonak. We have exactly eleven point five minutes before Kirk begins." Spock helps his mother grab a few of her affects to stuff in her satchel while Sarek leaves to notify the other council members in attendance today.

He keeps his hand wrapped tightly around her arm as he guides her from the tent to the waiting horses. It's a more reassuring gesture than he's comfortable admitting; he tells himself it's to ensure her safety and nothing to do with himself. Everyone gets to the horses just as the first explosion rocks camp. The ground shakes and the sound reverberates through everything. Thick smoke clouds the encampment, stinging eyes and burning throats. It's exactly the chaos Kirk promised.

Perhaps it's too much chaos. As the Vulcans start to ride out of camp, the army scrambles to launch some sort of defense against the unknown force currently blowing up their camp. There's a never ending stream of men and cavalry flooding the area scrambling to find some sort of enemy to raise arms against.

It's an all too familiar war cry that grabs Spock's attention. It's not the trumpets of war that the cavalry uses, it's an age old cry that has been heard across the land for generations. A contingent of Romulan warriors break through the smoke and ash, charging towards the Vulcans as they head for the hills. The black lines across their face glisten in the afternoon sun as they charge towards their prey, unchallenged by the army.

These reinforcements weren't necessary or counted on to help the army overpower the retreating Vulcans. While the army still sees most of the native groups with an air of mysticism in their heathen ways, the Romulans are well versed in their tactics and many of their practices. Spock pulls himself onto his horse and tries to calm its frayed nerves as it rears and panics amongst the chaos. His father, already mounted spurs forward to help one of his people defend themselves against one of the attacking Romulans, leaving Amanda in Spock's care.

Several more explosions go off; the sound and the heat playing on everyone's nerves, especially the horses. Spock tries to keep his eyes on his mother but his horse manages to throw him. The wind rushes out of his lungs as he hits the ground hard. For a moment the world around him wavers as he tries to roll over and regain his footing. He makes it to his knees when something, rather someone slams into him. The ground rushes up to meet his face as hands wrap tightly around his neck.

"Spock!" cries his mother over the distressed whine of her horse.

It's the concern and panic that laces her voice that stirs something primeval within Spock. He tosses his head back, the satisfying crunch of broken bones echoing behind him as his opponent slumps to the ground beside him. These Romulan riders are waging war against his people and have sided with people who mean to conquer these lands and slaughter the indigenous people. Spock wants nothing more than to take his building anger and unleash it upon all of them, the rational well cultivated portion of his mind that he has devoted to countless of hours of study in the Vulcan state of being reminds him of the pressing nature of their situation and lack of time to exact any vendettas. He reaches over and implements the Vulcan nerve pinch to render his opponent unconscious and useless for the rest of the battle.

He's not fast enough.

Spock finds his feet just in time to watch his familiar nemesis Ayel drive a knife deep into his mother's back, a wicked smile growing on his face as the blade slides in further. Amanda opens her mouth but no sound comes out and for a moment, time stands completely still. Existence narrows down to the horrific image of his mother, light slowly fading from her eyes. It hurts, more than words can say but the knife is not in him; it's some place far worse.

Ayel pulls the knife out with a triumphant yank, sparing a parting glance at his true adversary before Amanda's body slumps to the ground. Spock should give chase to the coward. Ayel saw fit to take revenge for his brother against Spock's loved one instead of Spock himself and it needs to be answered. Instead of deliciously warm revenge, he finds himself at his mother's side, blood pooling around both of them.

"Spock," she chokes, the same undying love on her face now as any other moment. She is dying and still her concern seems to be focused on him, a worry that in light of current events, seems unfounded. "I love you Spock," she whispers, her hand trailing down his face fondly yet leaving red streaks across his face mocking in their similarity to Romulan war paint.

There is nothing he can do, but still he holds her tighter. He knows the moment she passes, can feel the tension in her body disappear. Tears sting his eyes but he doesn't let them fall.

Sarek stands over them, looking lost despite his Vulcan stoicism. "Spock, we must go," he urges. Their window of escape is diminishing and dying as a family serves no purpose nor would it satisfy Amanda.

Spock shakes his head, jaw clenched tight, but not as tight as his fists. His father doesn't understand, couldn't possibly understand when it's not the same blood flowing through his veins. For the first time Spock doesn't want to deny his other half. He storms off, determined to make Ayel pay. If the man wanted vengeance, then he should have sought Spock out and only Spock.

He moves through the crowd, breaking bones and assaulting anyone that gets in his way. Ayel has taken refuge behind his fellow warriors, putting the numbers in his favor but Spock cares little. He takes a step towards the group only to be pulled back by the strong grip of his father.

"Spock! This will not bring your mother back, nor will it bring her peace. Son, your people need you," he pleads, actually pleads and it's enough to clear Spock's head of the fog of revenge. It's not the need of his people or the futility of dying while killing Ayel but his mother's disappointment at his reckless abandonment of the life she fought so hard to give him. His eyes never waver from his target but he allows his father to pull him away.

They're almost back to the horses when he finally scans the grounds. They are the last Vulcans at the encampment, the only other person of consequence is Kirk. Jim might not be concerned about his escape but Spock sees no logic in not at least attempting a getaway; this wasn't his fight nor his people, he shouldn't have to offer his life for them. Spock shares a meaningful glance with his father, before turning his horse and going back for the Lieutenant.

Kirk blows the last set of explosives. An air of calm washes over him as he looks around and sees he's the only one left standing against the army and the second they figure it out in the haze of battle, it will all be over for him.

The moment is ruined as Spock appears, horse leaping out of a billow of smoke as it jumps over a burning wagon, reigns to a second horse in his hand. "Get on!" he shouts, forcing his horse to stop while he passes the other horse over to Kirk.

Jim rewards him with a stupid grin that splits his face as he gratefully gets on the horse. They take off North, away from the Vulcans' retreat and the army's goal. He can feel the bullets whiz by, the heat from the flames; the thick smoke of gunpowder burns his eyes and threatens to choke him. They've almost cleared the battle ground when something explodes; apparently Jim wasn't the only one to get his hands on some explosive devices.

Kirk's horse rears sending him crashing to the ground. Jim's still and motionless as Spock brings his horse around. These are precious seconds to make a decision as army men begin to swarm their position. He's of no use to Kirk if he's captured too and the council has already made it clear they will act on behalf of the many over rescuing the two of them. The only chance is to try and persuade those who see the value in honor to help mount a rescue. It makes mathematical sense, but it still makes Spock uneasy to turn and ride out of the encampment without Kirk.

* * *

Everyone looks worn thin as Spock rides into the temporary camp and rendezvous point. The atmosphere is heavy under their uncertain future. The questions are too big to answer now, when survival is paramount but today is an undesirable example of what their future will likely hold. They've lost so much today and the sun hasn't yet set.

"Father," calls Spock moving through the mass of people. Sarek pauses in his conversation with the members of council to look at his son. For a brief moment there is relief on his face. "Lieutenant Kirk has been taken prisoner by his people. We must do something to help him."

"He knew the risks when he offered us a distraction," counters a council member before Sarek can say anything.

"They will not look kindly upon his betrayal. There is a very real possibility they will put him to death for assisting us," replies Spock and he's not too ashamed to say there is a tone in his voice.

"And what is it we are supposed to?" asks another council member.

"We must try and stop this," answers Spock, as though it should be clear.

"Spock," says Sarek fondly, "we do not have the numbers or the resources to accomplish such a task when our first priority should be the relocation of our people." He places his hand on his son's shoulder, a gesture so reminiscent of Amanda it makes both of them ache.

"If we do not keep honor in our debts and strive to be better than those who would slaughter us, have they not already won? There is no logic in continuing to prosper if we lose all that which we hold dear. We must make an attempt to help. Even a small raiding party stands a chance of success with the element of surprise on our side."

Chief Sarek raises his hand to halt any counter arguments by members of council. Spock is not wrong, even if he can tell his son speaks more from his heart rather than his intellect. They need all the allies they can get and debts of honor are sacred among their people. "You may take a small contingent of braves with you to retrieve the Lieutenant. I will meet you at the river confluence in seven days time whether or not you are successful in rescuing Kirk."

It's more than Spock can ask for and the least he owes Kirk. He bows his head in acceptance.

"Live long and prosper, son," bids Sarek before turning back to the council to discuss more pressing matters for their people.

Spock leaves with his handful of braves, racing against the clock and an army.

* * *

It's quite a turn out, everyone piling into the square to get a look at Jim Kirk's death; officers smiling and men looking remorseful but accepting as they march the prisoner to the hanging platform. Spock watches from behind one of the buildings in the fort as his men move into position. They have one chance at this and they must be ready to go at a moment's notice. He has to admire the bravery in which Kirk attacks the challenges thrown at him, but perhaps never more than now as the man faces certain death with a defiant look on his face and fear carefully tucked out of sight.

The charges are read aloud, a reminder and a warning against anyone else that gets the bright idea to go against progress' will and capital's plans. Human life is meaningless to the development that's steam rolling the land and being morally right means becoming an innocent casualty of the war that's going to play out in the next few years.

Jim stops at the top of the platform and the executioner's hands to guide him into position. The rope is placed around his neck, tightened in preparation. The executioner lifts the black cloth to cover his eyes but Jim shakes his head. The officers looking on in glee turn their heads to avoid the glare Kirk gives him, blue eyes unrelenting and deadly.

The drums beat faster and Jim takes a deep breath. There are fleeting seconds left and Spock gives the signal to the waiting braves. The drums stop and the silence suffocating as Jim waits for the floor to drop out from under his feet.

The executioner falls face first onto the wooden deck of the platform, a neat arrow sticking out of his back as the fort gates are thrown open to allow the Vulcan riders to cross the threshold. Surprise and noise creates confusion amongst the gathered masses whose panic makes the scene even more chaotic.

In what sounded like a bar fight or shootout, the world around them exploded with sounds of gun fire, horses, and shouting spilling through the square. The audience scrambles away like ants seeking cover or arms. The dead bodies are piling up as horses dance around carrying Vulcan braves unleashing a barrage of arrows on the masses.

Bodies are dropping left and right, some getting terribly close to hitting the lever that's going to leave Jim with nothing to stand on. "Spock?" chokes out Jim, surprised and relieved to see him riding towards the platform. He's never been so grateful to see the stoic Vulcan before in his life.

Spock gracefully jumps from the horse to the platform, his bow coming up to block the blow from one of the guards who scrambled up the platform to finish the executioner's job. Jim can only try and dance out of the way as they trade blows but his leash isn't long enough to keep him out of the way.

Kirk trips over his own feet, the rope catching him before he can hit the ground. His hands fly to his neck to try and earn some slack on the rope. "Spock," he wheezes, frantic and desperate.

Spock spares him a glance, the panic in Jim's voice alerting him to the man's urgency. Reaching behind his back he pulls free a tomahawk and slams it against the wooden support beam severing the rope. He can't spare a moment more to aid Kirk, as Spock's opponent pulls a knife of his own.

The tension disappears and Jim face plants on the platform gratefully sucking in air. He worms his fingers between the rope and his neck, painstakingly working the knot to loosen the noose enough to slip over his head. It's difficult to get his feet underneath him being shackled but he manages. He shakes his head to ward off the dizziness making the ground spin and takes a few staggering steps forward. He throws his weight against Spock's opponent, knocking him off the platform.

Spock raises an eyebrow as his adversary tumbles to the ground. He places a steadying hand on Kirk's shoulder as he sways at Spock's side. "Are you alright?"

"Will be, once we get out of here." Jim rubs his hand against his throat.

"Agreed." Spock glances around the fort at the destruction surrounding them. The Vulcan way is a typically peaceful way but the army took that away from them. The council was against sending braves to the fort of all places, but Chief Sarek had over ruled them with the logic of repaying their debt to Kirk and strengthening their relationship with a potential ally. It didn't guarantee the raiding party the full force of the Vulcan people and while they had the element of surprise on their side, to stay much longer would incur heavy casualties.

Spock whistles, loud and sharp over the sounds of battle and Jim flinches at the noise. Spock's horse runs directly towards its master, coming to stand next to the platform. The years of training have served both well in precarious situations like these. Spock grabs Kirk and despite his protest and throws Jim over the horse before climbing on himself.

The rest of the riders flank Spock and together they dash out of the fort before anyone there can really piece together what just transpired. They race, hard and fast for as long as possible to put as much distance between them and anyone brave enough to try and pursue. When the horses need a break, Spock then, allows Kirk to arrange himself in a more comfortable and dignified position on the horse.

* * *

The raiding party breaks apart, separating and spacing out to make it harder to track them. The riders further back are left to act as scouts and lookouts for anyone from the fort following them. It's quiet, just Spock and Kirk, whom they managed to liberate a horse for from a nearby farm. They make camp at the confluence and wait for news of riders or Chief Sarek.

Kirk breaks the heavy silence. "What happened back there at camp? Were those Vulcans that were fighting for the army?"

Spock's jaw clenches. "No," he snaps.

"Then what..." Jim flounders, trying to analyze exactly what's happened over the last few days. Everything happened so fast and then a rope was being placed around his neck, he hasn't had time to actually digest it all.

"They were Romulan. Long ago we were the same people but the branched off to pursue different ideals and practices. We are no longer the same. They've clearly decided their survival is best secured by allying with the army."

"Did everyone get out alright?" asks Jim and he looks hopeful that all their efforts were successful.

The twig in Spock's hand snaps. He's been trying hard not to think about what escape cost them. "No." The word is harsh and loud and Jim flinches slightly. "Ayel, one of the Romulan riders killed my mother."

Jim places his hand as best he can with the shackles, on Spock's shoulder. "Spock, I'm so sorry." Jim's eyes relay even more concern and sympathy than his tone and it's so reminiscent of Amanda, it makes Spock ache. He doesn't know how to handle these... _feelings_ and the only person who's counsel he could seek on the matter is gone.

Spock says nothing to Kirk and eventually he lets bound hands fall to his lap. He looks solemn himself. "I've seen one of those Romulans before," he whispers, looking lost and far younger than he did during battle. "Nero, murdered my father. He was right there at camp and I didn't kill him."

Spock looks at Kirk, really looks at him and considers just how much they have in common after all. He probably has more in common with what amounts to a stranger than his own people at the moment. "We need to get those shackles off of you. They draw unwanted attention and make movement difficult."

Jim sniffles and rubs at his eyes before nodding.

* * *

"You're sure about this?" asks Jim hesitantly, fidgeting.

Spock tilts his head to the side, a frustrated look creeping across his face. "Hold still," he reminds Kirk. He doesn't understand what the problem is. Their objective is clear and the method to achieve it limited.

"Yeah, but..." whines Jim, pulling his hands out of position and into his lap.

Spock grabs his shackled hands and places them back over the smooth surface of the stone. "There is a twelve point seven-three percent chance I will miss _if_ you keep still."

"That's a twelve percent chance I lose a hand!" argues Jim.

"The likelihood of death from being captured by the army for having a blacksmith remove the shackles is far greater than the risk of losing a hand if we pursue this option."

Jim opens his mouth to continue his protest of removing his shackles this way when sound of someone approaching pulls his attention. Spock takes advantage of Kirk's momentary distraction and just as a horse comes into view around the bend the shape ping of metal connecting with metal reverberates off the rocky terrain. Jim turns back to Spock and the Vulcan tried very hard to keep any sign of satisfaction off his face as Kirk lifts up his hand which is free of the shackle and unmaimed.

"Now the other one," commands Spock grabbing Jim's left wrist before the debate can start again. He spares a moment to nod at the approaching riders before he continues liberating his co-conspirator.

By the time Kirk's hands and feet are free of the chains, limbs still attached, the Vulcan riding party has dismounted. "Live long and prosper," greets Chief Sarek with the customary Vulcan hand salute but the words seem heavier now that they've lost their home. Sarek's eyes settle on Jim. "The Vulcan people are grateful for your service."

Kirk glances down, uncomfortable. "I did what anyone would have done," offers Jim, soft and gentle. "You saved my life. I owe you gratitude."

Sarek looks at him skeptically. They both know everyone had a chance and chose to do the opposite in this scenario. "We are heading west to an ancient hunting land long abandoned by our people. We believe it is still unclaimed and will seek to make it home once again. There are no settlements that far out yet, so it is reasonable to expect peace for a little while. You are welcome to join us Jim Kirk; the army will continue to hunt you making it illogical to return to your people."

His father speaks the truth. The logical thing to do is a tactical retreat. They don't have the strength to take on the whole army and one man alone certainly doesn't either. It's of benefit to both to leave and never look back and hope to gain some sort of life for awhile until the army finds them again. Again, Spock is faced with uncertainly in regards to his new companion. Kirk seems to choose to the most illogical path so naturally he would chose to seek out vengeance against Nero for his family first before exposing the army's treachery to try and stop future such occurrences.

With his mother's death still fresh in his mind Spock feels... he feels. As disturbing as it is he wants to feel the life drain out of Ayel to avenge the life of the woman who gave him his. It's not logical and it's not Vulcan but he can't bring himself to care. Logic has always failed him where his mother is concerned. Spock finds himself wanting Kirk to choose the reckless path. He'll need Jim's help to navigate the world and get to Ayel; he can't do it alone.

"Thank you for the offer Chief," starts Jim, "but I have unfinished business. The man that murdered my father was a part of this and I need to figure out why and then kill him."

Sarek nods his head in understanding. "You will always be welcome among our people." He turns to head back to his horse but stops when he notices his son's absence. Spock is still standing next to Jim and shows no signs of taking his leave.

"Spock?" asks the Chief. There's concern and worry in his eyes. There is a look he cannot place in his son's eyes, like a storm brewing in the night. It reminds him of Spock when he was but a child, still fighting to control his emotional side, to be more Vulcan.

Spock takes a deep breath. "No father. The officers recognized me, they will be searching for me as well as Lieutenant Kirk. My accompanying you will only put our people in danger. And mother's killer is still out there. I understand our people find no logic in revenge but I believe where mother is concerned, I will adopt the custom of revenge that her people employ. I also feel it is my duty to help Kirk see his mission through to help nullify the debt our people owe him."

Chief Sarek looks like he wants to protest but simply bows his head instead. Perhaps there is more of Amanda in his son than he ever realized. For the first time, he's envious of his son. Vengeance sounds good but the Vulcan way is too ingrained in him to give into such emotions, even for his wife. Spock seems more in touch with what needs to be done. "Live long and prosper, my son," he says before taking his leave with the rest of the Vulcan riders. He wishes Spock well on his hunt, even if it's not logical.

They watch the Vulcans ride out of sight. "Are you sure Spock? You can still go with them," asks Jim.

They are about to embark on a great undertaking. Kirk managed to save the Vulcans from becoming a foot note in history and it's a debt that must be paid. Now more than ever he can understand Jim's need to find the man that killed his father. Together they just might be able to punish those that destroyed their families. He will pay Kirk back and then set his sights on Ayel. "Yes," is all Spock says before mounting his horse and offering Jim his hand. He's never belonged somewhere more than he belongs with Jim on this journey. It's not logical, but it's true.

* * *

 ** _Thank you to everyone who read this story and/or commented, you're the best._**  
 ** _Thanks to CaptainNinapants for beta reading this story._**

 **Next story: Scotty's Brave New World**


	4. Scotty

**Brave New World**

Montgomery Scott always had an eye for fine craftsmanship. His father and grandfather were both engineers and his uncle a watch maker. He remembers spending hours captivated by his uncle's steady hands and attention to detail as he crafted a very special watch for Scotty. Such fine craftsmanship is undoubtedly worth the price of a boat ticket and then some. Keenser's a wildly crafty Irishman who has a talent for reselling things but isn't beyond cheating Scotty out of some money. It's only because they're friends that he allows it, but only a little; there has to be some honor among thieves. Keenser turns the watch over in his hand as he studies it, looking for any defect that he can haggle the price down with, before begrudgingly handing over his ticket for the soon departing steamboat.

Scotty could get a better price for the watch if he waited, could sell it through reputable people and purchase his own ticket for a boat later, but the death of his dear grandmother has left him antsy. His mother passed on the boat ride across the ocean when the family decided to carve out a brighter future, his grandfather passing a short year after they arrived. Death wasn't done with the Scott family by any means, taking his father while Scotty was barely out of diapers. Now with his grandmother's passing, the only family he's really known, he is well and truly alone in the world. His uncle has long since married and migrated away from the eastern coast to a life more elevated than that of the poor immigrant struggling in the new world. There's nothing here for him except memories and unemployment and people getting wise to his scamming ways. The only chance he has is to try his hand with the new frontier and if he doesn't leave this moment, he might not have the courage to do it later.

He begrudgingly takes the ticket sans any additional cash and makes his way to the dock. The trip takes forever but somewhere along the way he manages to charm the crew, trading services working in the engine room for the moonshine they smuggled aboard. He drifts once he hits land again, going from town to town looking for employment that utilises his skills and satisfies his interests with little success. He's not cut out for life in manual labor and refuses to be indentured to a company because his heritage is looked upon unfavorably. Still, he believes he's better off than he was back in New York.

He does enjoy his tour of local saloons through his travels but blames a particularly nasty local brew for ever letting him believe it was a good idea to shoot at bottles of Nitroglycerin. He can't remember how the conversation deteriorated into how big a hole someone could blast into a mining site or how he ends up standing a couple yards away from several small bottles of the explosive with a gun waving dangerously in his hand, but when opportunity presents itself...

He takes aim and pulls the trigger, smiling with childlike glee at the subsequent explosion that shakes the earth and leaves a crater in the landscape.

Local law officials don't seem to share his sense of humor as Scotty quickly finds himself marched and manhandled into the local jail cell. It isn't all bad, a roof over his head and three square meals a day for the foreseeable future if the sheriff has his way. It's a bit of a load off his plate, ensuring his survival for a little while longer. The cell's not exactly his aesthetic and conversation extremely one-sided but he's exceptionally good at working with what he has.

He's lying on his cot when he hears the door to the Sheriff's office door open. His rumbling stomach hints that it's probably dinner time. "What have you brought me today?" he asks, swinging his feet over the side of the cot and sitting up to look at the deputy.

"You're not the deputy," he says bewildered at the stranger holding his dinner tray.

The man is tall and distinguished and wears his uniform well. Scotty has a sense of unease as he sees the Captain's stripes on the man's sleeve as he puts the tray down on the Sheriff's desk and pulls a chair close to the cell. He doesn't have a good history with authority and no one has more of an air of authority than the army, who has worse punishments than rotting in jail to back them up. Bringing in the big guns suggests a level of malice Scotty's doesn't believe himself capable of or an attempt at railroading. Nobody got hurt and they were digging in that mine anyway, there's no reason to bring an army official in on such a minor infraction. He raises an eyebrow as the Captain stares at him for a moment. He feels like he's going to end up being dinner, broiled under the man's scrutiny.

"What's for dinner," Scotty asks nervously, rubbing his hands up and down his thighs.

The Captain reaches over and lifts the lid off the tray and examines the contents. "Looks like some sort of stew," he says casually.

"Well how bout it then?" Scotty motions towards the tray of food. Much to his dismay the Captain sets the lid down and turns his focus back to Scotty. The man's easygoingness does nothing to soothe the engineer's unease and suspicion.

"That was an interesting little stunt you pulled."

"It was no wee stunt," snaps Scotty, feathers clearly ruffled. "Way I hear it they're pullin gold outta that hole as we speak." It's bad enough he has to suffer this indignity, he won't have his work impugned. Some people just refuse to acknowledge brilliance.

"I've asked around about you," continues the Captain undeterred by the hostility radiating off of the prisoner.

Scotty sneers. "All good things, I'm sure." He has no disillusions about what kind of man he is; knows where his faults lie and where they don't. At best he can label himself a drunk and brilliant engineer but most people use words more in the vein of scoundrel. He rarely leaves a good impression of himself but his work speaks for itself and in the end when time turns him to dust, it's the work and innovations that are going to last. In the meantime, if people can't handle his eccentric personality, or see through his shabby exterior to the brilliance within, that's their misfortune.

"You're a brilliant engineer." It's the truth, though he did have to dig through the condemnation people seemed to pile on when he asked about Scotty. It seems the last few towns the Scotsman staggered through thought little of the man, but respected his talent.

Scotty sits up a little straighter, a little more intrigued. People in uniform, or with any authority for that matter, don't focus on his skills, rather they focus on his lengthy list of crimes. "Go on."

"I could use someone with your skills. If you're willing to join, I can get you out of here, today."

"What? Me join the army? I don't bloody think so." He crosses his arms for good measure. He's a free spirit, going his own way, he doesn't march to the beat of anyone else's drum or bugle or whatever they're using these days. Killing has never been on his list of things to do and he certainly doesn't subscribe to army ideals.

The Captain shrugs as though it makes no difference in his day. "Suit yourself. If you'd prefer to languish here instead of putting your talents to use I can find someone else to certify ordnance and fix things." He gets up and straightens his jacket. "Enjoy your stay here," he bids before making his way to the door, the tray of food still sitting out of reach on the Sheriff's desk.

Scotty chews on his bottom lip. The little boy in him is excited about what kind of mischief he could get into with free reign of army supplies but he's never been one to conform to anyone's standards before. It's not like he has a lot to lose but it has to be better than this jail cell and the nothingness that looms after it. At least his needs will be met and he won't have to forage anymore or so he can hope. He doubts he's going to get a better offer anywhere else, but he wishes he didn't have to entertain this one. Besides, once he's taken advantage of the situation, how hard could it be to slip away? Surely the army has better things to do than chase him down when he reneges on this deal.

"Wait!" he calls out. "Are you gonna have food?"

The Captain stops and walks back to the cell, looking serious. "I'm sure we can find you a hot meal." He takes the key off the desk and unlocks the cell door setting Scotty free. "Captain Christopher Pike of the twelfth regiment." He offers his hand to Scotty and they share a firm handshake. "Welcome to the army."

Scotty follows Pike outside where another officer is waiting on a horse. The young officer is paying more attention to the girls trying to draw future clients into the brothel than pair walking out of the Sheriff's office. If this is the best the army has to offer, Scotty fears for the future of mankind. Their drafting pool is clearly children just out of diapers that are more interested lying with a woman for the first time than pulling their heads out of their asses and exuding any kind of authority. Clearly the intimidation factor he's heard whispers of is just a bold face lie. Pike takes the reins for his horse that Kirk is holding and climbs up. "This is Lieutenant Kirk," he says pulling the kid's attention to the matter at hand. "He'll see to it you get a good meal, a comfortable sleep and a uniform in the morning before bringing you to camp."

The kid on the horse nods. "Yes sir."

"Kirk," warns Pike, leaning over to make sure the Lieutenant hears him and subsequently Scotty through the less than subtle tone, "don't make me have to come back here in the morning to bail you two out of jail." He spurs his horse onward taking the road out of town towards the army camp. The army doesn't stay in town, preferring to erect their own base camps to keep the men from running amuck in town.

A wicked smile over takes the blond, like the devil himself just gave him the keys to the kingdom. Scotty's not sure if he should be worried or not. He just got out of trouble, he doesn't need to find more just yet; especially someone else's. He slides out of his saddle and lands gracefully on his feet. He extends his hand towards Scotty. "Jim Kirk."

"Montgomery Scott, but ya can call me Scotty."

Jim claps him on the shoulder. "What do you say we get ourselves a drink?"

* * *

Reluctantly, Scotty acclimates well to army life. He generally doesn't get along with the officers but Pike puts Kirk in charge of him if he needs to interact with authority, but generally is afforded the space and tools necessary to engage his genius. The Lieutenant is the only one other than Pike he really has to answer to and the kid turns out to be not only an excellent drinking partner but a good friend. Scotty doesn't even think about abandoning his new life.

When Kirk gets sent to another detachment to oversee some land treaties, Scotty goes with him. There isn't a lot for him to do on a peaceful negotiation, so he spends his time around camp fiddling with his inventions and picking up gossip about the other regiments.

It's the end of another long day monotonous day of waiting while superiors hammer out details when Kirk bursts into the tent, out of breath and almost frantic. "Corporal Scott, can I speak with you," he says, formally, looking around the tent at the other men performing their duties.

"Aye," says Scotty with an uneasy feeling. Kirk's the only other person he's met that has a penchant for trouble like he does and if the kid's found something to get worked up about here, it doesn't bode well for the coming days. These are peaceful negotiations so it can't be army related and he has no family and besides Kirk no friends so it can't be bad news from home. He follows Kirk out of the tent and away from any ears. The secrecy does nothing to calm the Scotsman's nerves.

"I need a favor Scotty." Kirk's desperate in a way Scotty's never seen him before. There's genuine fear in his eyes and every line of his body screams of flighty concern; he looks at Scotty like he'd singlehandedly save the universe if he accepts Jim's request. The fact that it's a favor means it's not army sanctioned and if he knows Jim as well as he does, trouble is sure to follow. It's Jim, he's never steered him wrong before, so he doesn't hesitate, not one second before saying, "What do you need, Jim."

* * *

The negotiations at Vulcan are a disaster. The official story being that Lieutenant Kirk formed a resistance against the army leading the Vulcan's to attack the detachment leading to the slaughter of both Vulcans and service men alike. Scotty can't actually comment on the events leading up to the battle he witnessed but it hardly sounds like the Jim he's gotten to know.

The internal investigation lasts for days, leaving the engineer slumped in an uncomfortable chair under the demanding gaze of his superiors as they work to bury Kirk for the malicious crime. Scotty listens passively as his superiors relay events and demand to know how Kirk got a hold of the explosives he used. He knows Jim, and while the kid had been extremely vague about what he was going to do, he can't bring himself to buy the party line. He doesn't sell the kid out, simply pleads ignorance on the subject. If Kirk had sold him out, he knows he'd be in the jail cell sitting next to Kirk instead of being questioned.

He kind of regrets just handing over the supplies Jim had asked for. He should have asked more questions; should have gotten involved more; should have out right refused what the impetuous kid was asking and saved Jim Kirk from himself. At least then he'd be better equipped to understand what happened, to defend Kirk's honor and reputation against what the army claims. Instead it looks like Jim protected him from the fallout of his actions and Scotty can only imagine what fate awaits Kirk with charges like those. He has no idea what actually transpired, knows Jim is capable of everything they said he did and more, but deep down he knows Jim wouldn't do it without a damn good reason.

The army can't pin anything on him, but won't let him stay; as far as they're concerned he's as guilty as Kirk for the whole mess. Scotty's not sure he wants to stay anymore anyways so it's just as good that they part ways now. He leaves town the day before Kirk's scheduled to be hanged for treason because he can't bring himself to watch a good man dangle on the end of a rope. He needs to find a town with a bar anyways; attempt to wash away the sorrow and guilt and the messy swirl they've become in his soul.

Of all the people he can run into, he finds Keenser who's carved out a manageable existence for himself in the first shithole of a town Scotty stumbles into. It's a relief to see a familiar face so far from home and in the wake of losing another friend. He spends the day getting drunk, refusing to think about Jim's fate and Keenser's nice enough to cover the tab and not ask any questions.

He gains some employment helping the local blacksmith and supplements his income by building various tools and devices for Keenser to sell. He boards with the Irishman and while it's not the lap of luxury, it's a roof over his head and a place to hang his hat. Scotty tries really hard to view his current situation as less fulfilling than his work with the army; he hadn't even wanted to join in the first place, he absolutely won't let himself miss it. He doesn't need the friendship and loyalty of a cocksure commanding officer or a sense of purpose from trying to make the world a safer place. He just needs tool and something to tinker with, to make himself get up in the morning.

* * *

He gets lost in the repetitiveness of daily life, the only excitement he has to look forward to are his nights spent drinking and gambling. He's happy drunk when he sees his first ghost and writes it off as a hallucination brought on by a bad batch of moonshine. It certainly isn't guilt that usually fuels his dreams when he breaches the walls of remorseful and bitter drunk. He tells himself he won't feel guilty for things that were out of his hands.

The next night he's a little more reserved with his consumption and is absolutely certain he knows the ghost who tonight is stranding at his table with a devilish grin. "Jim Kirk, I canna believe it," he shouts, jumping out of his chair and embracing the kid in a bone crushing hug. Definitely not a ghost after all.

"Scotty," laughs Jim, returning the hug. Kirk sits down at the table with his Vulcan companion and motions to the bartender to bring him a glass.

"It's good to see ya laddie!" Scotty raises his glass in a toast. "I was under the impression the army stretched yer neck out." There's a sense of relief bubbling up through Scotty and the world seems a little more bearable now.

"They tried," say Kirk solemnly. He goes unnaturally still and quiet, uncomfortable with the memory and everything he lost. He clears his throat and tilts his head towards his companion; deflection has always been a game he excels at. "Scotty, this is Spock."

"Pleasure," greets Scotty extending his hand across the table. Spock just looks at it but makes no move to take it.

"I need a favor from you, Scotty," starts Jim, all business.

Scotty looks at his extended hand with a frown before withdrawing it and rubbing it against his pant leg. Vulcans aren't known for conforming to social norms so he tries not to take offense. "Ach no," he says angrily screwing his face up in refusal. He's not a fan of repeating history and he's pretty sure luck isn't going to strike twice to save Kirk from himself again. "Last time I did you a favor, I received a very stern dressing down from one Lieutenant-colonel Archer and was thrown out of the bloody army!"

"You hated the army," counters Jim.

"Oh aye, but you know what I hate even more, Jim? Not having a bloody job!" snaps Scotty, his outrage clear.

" _Scotty_ ," begs Kirk.

Spock sits back impassively observing the exchange but saying nothing.

"No, there isn't a line up of people lookin to employ a dashing Scottish engineer. Even if he is a genius. The only place would be the railway but they won't do it after what happened with the Vulcans." The railway and army have tentative ties if not backdoor deals. They certainly aren't looking to redeem anyone the army tossed out.

Jim leans forward, elbows resting on the table. "I need someone that can blow a safe open but not destroy the contents in it." He's being intentionally vague to protect all involved or who could potentially be involved.

"So it's robbery you're resorting to now is it, Jimmy?" Scotty scrutinizes his friend. Clearly the kid didn't have his fill of trouble when he went up against the army and lost. "Well that's brilliant man."

"Can you do it?" he asks, not looking for approval of his life choice but a commitment of skill.

"No!" He declares then lowers his voice, "maybe." He hasn't met a challenge he couldn't overcome but the question is does he want to throw his lot in with Jim again. He finishes off his glass and says, "Yes."

Jim smiles and gives a reassuring glance to Spock. "I told you he was the best."

"Flattery will get you everywhere," says Scotty. "What's it pay?"

* * *

The room is dark except for the glow of moonlight a week after agreeing to Jim's madness. It's not ideal working conditions but Scotty could do this with his eyes closed. Kirk leans casually against the table as Scotty rigs the explosives on the safe. Jim took care of the breaking in part with surprising ease, helping the Scotsman carry in his supplies while Spock's sitting pretty on the roof across the street, rifle in hand. He's the look out and their cover fire should things go south.

Jim's after the documents in the safe and Scotty's not entirely sure he wants to know what's so important it has to be locked in a state of the art custom made safe in a bank that isn't money or gold. The less he knows the more he can deny later and Jim has that dangerous glint in his eye like he's on a mission. The whole thing reminds him of Vulcan and he doesn't want a repeat, for himself or for Jim.

"So you trust you're pointed eared friend there, do ya?" he asks conversationally without stopping rigging the explosive. Kirk should have someone watching his back, he's seen what happens when there isn't. He's not surprised that Jim could inspire loyalty out of anyone but given the fact that the army just had a clash with the Vulcans, seeing one joined at the hip of a former Lieutenant seems an odd place to find loyalty. Scotty's never felt obligated to anyone before, not even Keenser, but he's never been friends with someone as loyal as Jim before either. It's the first time in his life he felt that there was someone who couldn't name a price to sell Scotty out.

"Spock? With my life. Why?" He doesn't sound offended by the question. Scotty knows Jim wouldn't risk his life with someone he didn't trust watching their backs but he can't fathom what a reckless, devil-may-care like Jim would have in common with a Vulcan, nor why a Vulcan would forsake logic and throw his lot in with Jim.

"Cause when I set this off, not only is it going to take the door off, but it's gonna make a hell of a noise and everyone in town's gonna know we're here," he warns. It's Jim last chance to back out.

"Spock'll cover us, don't worry," Jim assures.

Scotty lights the fuse and takes a step back to stand beside Jim. "You might want to take cover."

The pair run to the other side of the table, flip it over and duck behind it. The panes of glass in the windows rattle as the shockwave rolls through the building. Jim and Scotty peer over the edge of the table like a couple of kids checking to see if the coast is clear. The door to the safe is lying uselessly on the side of the room leaving all its treasures exposed. "Whadda I tell ya," laughs Scotty.

"You're a miracle worker, Scotty," confirms Kirk as he runs over and searches through the safe. He holds up an envelope and tube in triumphant. "Let's get out of here." They take off like bandits in the night before the town can rally and investigate the noise.

* * *

The early rays of morning are peaking over the rolling hills in the distance when the trio stops riding. They commandeer an empty hunting cabin and sit around the table. Jim clears it with one swipe of his arm and lays the envelope down. He opens the tube and pulls out a set of rolled up blue prints. Before unrolling them he says, "If you want to walk away Scotty, this is your chance." He looks serious like sticking around is tandem to stepping off a cliff.

He doesn't know exactly what Jim's got himself caught up in but he knows his character and this has to be something pretty important to go to all the trouble when the army has to be breathing down his neck. Scotty didn't take action last time and wrestled with the guilt, he'd like to change that this time around. "I'd like to know what all the fuss is about, if it's all the same to you."

Jim nods and unrolls the blue prints. They're a proposed rail line that runs through the lands that belonged to the Vulcan tribe, the same land the army had been sent in to negotiate for and the Vulcans were refusing to relinquish. The envelope contains letters outlining in no uncertain terms the Vulcans be removed from the land by any means necessary so the rail line can be built on the land.

It's a practical smoking gun of who was supposed to get their hands dirty taking care of the native problem and who was going to reap the rewards. Kirk's finger runs down the list. There's names of army officers and men of state they have no hope of touching but Jim seems specifically fixated on the name of a shady business man who played an important role: Nero. His finger comes back to it and settles on the name, there in black bold print and every line of his body becomes tense.

"This Nero was going to slaughter the Vulcans if they didn't agree to leave?" asks Scotty putting the pieces together as he reads over Kirk's shoulder. Jim nods silently, grinding his teeth. "You tried to warn them," he says, realizing just what Jim had set out to do almost a year ago.

"A lot of good it did," sneers Kirk, the self incrimination rolling off him in waves.

"You were able to save the lives of many of my people. Had you not acted, we would have all perished," assures Spock.

"We're going to make Nero pay," promises Jim. "You want in Scotty?"

Scotty can see the grief tearing Jim a part, a half victory is tantamount to failure in the kid's book. He didn't suffer like Spock nor Jim during the incident with the Vulcans, can't say Nero destroyed his life, but he did lose the life he had begun to carve out for himself. It's not worth a man's life but it deserves retribution and he can't say Nero doesn't deserve everything he's going to get for what he did to everyone else.

Scotty hasn't always agreed with Kirk's causes but they always land on the side of right even if popular opinion and common sense say to walk away. He doesn't exactly have anything to go back to and nothing in particular to run towards. Having Jim's back seems a good a plan as any. He'll at least have a good drinking partner until things end in a blaze of glory. And if he's going to go out, it might as well be for something worthwhile.

"I can't think of anything I'd rather do Jim."

* * *

 ** _Thank you to everyone who read this story and/or commented, you're the best._**  
 ** _Thanks to CaptainNinapants for beta reading this story._**

 **Next story: Uhura's** _ **Once More Unto the Breach**_


	5. Uhura

**Once More Unto the Breach**

Nyota Uhura learns her first life lesson at a very young age on a rather unremarkable day in any ordinary town. Her father provides for the family by operating a courier service running both goods and people to and from various towns. Due to the nature of his work and how long it takes him away from the family, she and her mother accompany him on his trips; one happy family traveling the country side. It means never having roots or a place to call home but they have each other and it seems like enough. While people seem to have a general disdain for the family based on trivial things like skin color and station, they never stay in any place for it to have a real effect on their world outlook and those that matter don't share that view.

When the words do hurt, her father is always quick to dry her tears and assure her everything will be alright, that word's won't hurt if you keep your head high. The little boy cruel enough to lob the words at her quickly shrinks under her father's impressive stare, scurrying away with stammered apologies. He wraps his arms tightly around Nyota and promises one day, everyone will be equal but she'll always be the most special person in the world to him. Her father is the gentlest person she knows but also the fiercest when it comes to injustice. She makes a point to learn as many words as possible, to learn how they cut before they're used against her. The lesson that Uhura keeps close to her is the importance of family and how much stronger it makes her.

Nyota can't imagine getting a better education than touring the land and meeting various people and cultures. At seven she's already fluent in three languages thanks to her mother's efforts and inherited genius. Her brains may come from her mother but she's also learned her father's work ethic. The man toils endlessly to make sure his family has what they need and isn't shying away from the challenge of trying make his own business in this world, to be his own boss. They've made friends with many of the local indigenous groups, learning trails and gaining permission to travel their lands, giving them an edge in the shipping business.

The family is doing so well, her father is talking about being able to employ other people, to buy a home for them and let others work for them for a change. It will be a huge change but Nyota is excited about the possibilities. She's always wondered what it would be like to put on a dress to attend school like the other children she sees in the towns they pass through. It will be like learning a new culture and language, like the many she has already had the pleasure of embracing.

Her next lesson in her terribly young life comes from tragedy, one that sears its way into her blood and bones for all time. They make camp just outside a growing town called Federation City. It's mostly dirt and a scattering of shacks off the main street but it promises to be an important transport hub in the coming days, a major stop before the road splits off to the many towns springing up along the country side. It's the perfect place to lay roots for an up starting shipping company.

Her mother has gone down to the river to wash the breakfast dishes before giving Nyota her morning lessons allowing Nyota a few spare minutes to explore the open field spread out before her. The high grass rolls like waves on water with the gentle breeze whispering over the plains. Beautiful red flowers peek up through the grass catching the orange and gold of the sun like flames. Nyota starts by picking one, then another, then another, wandering deeper into the thick grass that easily towers over her.

She has a moment of panic when all she can see is the grass, turned around with no clue which direction to head. Before the feeling of being hopelessly lost takes hold, she hears her father's velvety voice and it's like he's standing right next to her, wrapping his arms around her and keeping her safe. She runs towards his voice, going as fast as her little legs can carry her. His voice gets louder the closer she gets back to camp but just as she's sure she's about to reach the end of the field another voice makes her stop short.

It's not her mother's voice, but another man. The voices are shouting now and she can't place the voice as anyone she knows. Nyota lies down and crawls to the edge to peek out, careful to remain unseen. Her father is arguing with a man dressed in black who towers over him by a good foot. The man is not alone, there are several others with him sitting on their horses watching the argument take place. There's a sense of evil radiating off of them like manifestations of the four horsemen waiting to pick apart man's soul.

Nyota is captivated by the intricate black lines decorating the riders' faces and the pointed ears some of them have; they're equal parts fascinating and scary. She's heard stories of tribes with pointed ears but hasn't had the occasion to see any of them in person yet; their lands should be much further north not here.

She's mentally taking note of all the things unique to these people when the riders pull their guns and fire. The sound reverberates across the land, rattling through Nyota's head and heart causing her lungs to seize and the world to narrow to the horrifying sight of her father grabbing his chest and falling to the ground. Nyota wants to scream but she can't seem to take a breath, can't convince her body to do anything but lie there, helplessly.

The lesson is a simple but important one: people will kill to get ahead.

* * *

It's hard to make an honest living in a land where people are still settling and law is more an idea than an established barrier. It's even harder to survive as a single female trying to raise a young girl. Nyota sees how hard her mother works as the sole provider for the family now and what terrible constraints her father's untimely death has put upon them. She also sees everything her mother thinks she's hiding from Nyota.

They actually stay in towns for months at a time, renting rooms or staying in boarding houses. Nyota spends most of her time at school or washing dishes for local eateries just to help lessen her mother's burden. It's a far cry from the excitement of meeting and exploring new cultures, the things that used to make her heart beat faster but she doesn't complain. If she's really lucky, she can make some money translating documents for law officials or the post office, but those jobs are practically nonexistent. Nyota knows her mother doesn't think she notices the number of gentlemen callers that visit their room or the fact that the never return after one visit when she's supposed to be away at school.

At first she's consumed by the sting of betrayal that her mother could so easily replace her father with the arms of any willing man who sees fit to take a turn in her bed. Her father worshiped the ground she walked upon and she thought her mother felt the same way. When rage burns out and she sees the rent being paid by the money so casually left by the gentlemen callers, she's consumed with pity. Her mother loved her father dearly and having to fall so low as to satisfy strangers for money over love now that their world has been destroyed is just too far for one person to fall.

Nyota remembers her first lesson about the importance of family and vows to find ways to make more money to relieve the terrible burden place upon her mother. Honesty is a luxury she doesn't feel they can afford anymore and so she strikes a deal with one of the street kids in town. She teaches him to read because language skills is what she has to offer, while he teaches her the benefits of sleight of hand and how not to get caught picking pockets.

While stealing her first change purse, she remembers her father and the pride he had for doing the right thing and doing right by people. It should fill her with shame with what she and her mother are willing to do to get by, but she thinks her father never got the chance to learn the lesson about doing whatever it takes to survive.

* * *

Nyota and her mother have an unspoken arrangement regarding what each does to earn their money; silence being the best policy. After a rather successful night at cards, Uhura returns to their room earlier than anticipated. She has several things going for her at the card tables, age, innocent appearance, and the fact that she's female. From the get go, men let her play out of pity, knowing full well they'll be quick to relieve her of her money and send her on her way with a valuable lesson on life against gambling with superior men. The satisfaction of cleaning them out and teaching them a lesson on appearances never gets old. She creeps up the stairs so as not to wake the other rooms and cracks open the door to their room.

Her mother is not only awake, despite her failing energy of late, but entertaining company. Nyota is just about to slip back out without disturbing them when she catches sight of the man's face in the mirror. She freezes, limbs locked in terror and disbelief as her heart begins to pound frantically. That face is burned into her memory; it haunts her dreams. It is the face of one of the men that killed her father.

Her mind is a jumbled mess. Surely her mother wouldn't forget the face of a murder? The feelings of betrayal and pity are back, swirling and mixing like paint leaving a black stain on the canvas of her soul. Her mother catches her eye over the man's shoulder for one brief second and is the picture of calm and collected before reaching under the bed sheets to retrieve a knife. She raises her hand quickly as if she was going to caress the man's neck and plunges the blade into his neck. He coughs, sputters and flails, unable to cry out for help before slumping over dead, his blood pouring out, soaking the sheets and staining them red.

Uhura can't help but stand there in disbelief as her mother grabs her robe off the nearby chair, throwing it around herself as she climbs out of bed and flies across the room without a sound to shut the door. She looks at Uhura for a moment, a look of determination so fierce it's almost frightening but never utters a word. Nyota isn't sure there are words in any language for this.

She watches with stunned fascination as her mother drags the body towards the window and unceremoniously dumps it out as one would a chamber pot into the dark space between the houses along the street with practiced ease. "They'll think it was a brawl in the middle of the night," she says with certainty.

Nyota feels like she's seeing her mother for the first time. It's clearly not the first time she's done this. The six gunmen that shot her father all come to mind and she wonders just how many are left. She admires the strength her mother needed to go through with a plan like this and feels her sense of pride she lost when she believed her mother to be achingly desperate, return. Nyota realizes that sometimes survival means wading through lakes of blood for vengeance.

* * *

Nyota stands silently alone in the grave yard as the priest finishes his prayer. She'll probably never set foot in this town again but is loath to leave it now. Her father is buried in some town that's nothing more than a distant memory for her and now her mother is sharing that fate in a different graveyard in another faceless town.

Of all the things she thought could bring her mother down, she didn't think it would be illness. The local doctor's steep price for medication for Rigelian Fever was so high that it took a week for Nyota to secure the funds. By the time she did, the doctor's supply of Ryetalyn had run out and so had her mother's time. She's barely fifteen and completely alone in the world.

The grief is so strong and heavy it'll crush her if she lets it. There isn't time for grief, too many things to do and only Nyota is left to do them. There's four gunmen left and they need to pay; that was her mother's last request. Four men Nyota, no she's just Uhura now because they will know the name of the family they destroyed, will hunt down and kill. She promised. At fifteen years old, it's all she has left.

* * *

Saloons all looked the same after awhile. The names and faces within change but the people stay the same. It provides an odd sort of comfort, familiarity in her constant travels, like a place to call home. Her job with the survey company affords her enough, the ability to travel on someone else's dollar, with a small paycheque to blow at the local establishments in the towns they pass through. The job is mostly a glorified cover but she does actually enjoy the work. She thinks her parents would be proud that she is putting her language skills to use by being the negotiator between companies and the indigenous people who's lands they're venturing into. She even works hard to ensure they have a fair agreement.

Nyota steps into the saloon, hit immediately with the bitter smell of alcohol and fog from the smoke. The crew she's traveling with this time already have a table in the back, waving her over to join them. She smiles politely and declines them, instead elbowing her way to the bar and sets herself down on a stool instead. She took this job specifically to end up in this town and doesn't need the crew getting in the way. The eyes of every sleaze ball in the place settle on her, running over her like their perverted hands would be doing if they were closer. She supposes a more respectable woman would be repulsed by the vile nature of men but her work and more importantly her life don't allow her the luxury of being respectable. She wouldn't be able to accomplish her goals if she binds herself in respectable society ribbon. She grabs the bartender's wrist to get his attention. "A shot of whisky," she orders. Some liquid courage will fortify her nerves.

"Make that two." A blond head appears as one of the patrons leans forward on the other side of the man sitting between her and the mystery man. "Her shot's on me," he says with a suggestive smile.

Nyota rolls her eyes. The kid's not bad looking but clearly no better off than she is; probably blowing all his money in one glorious night of booze and woman that he'll sorely regret come morning. He'd be an easy mark for some pocket change, a quick smile followed by a gentle hand caressing his hip and two shots later he'd be passing out with a smile on his face and an empty pocket. She doesn't have time to deal with a hopeless drunk right now. "Her shot's on her," she corrects. "Thanks, but no thanks." She's about to use sex to get what she wants. Still, it's degrading that men think it's the only reason she was put on this earth, even if she has done far worse than the blue eyed wonder currently using the bar for support.

"Don't you at least want to know my name before you completely reject me?" asks the blond with a small pout. He hides the rejection well enough but even all that swagger can't hide his mild exasperation at her dismissal. He wobbles slightly on his stool as his glassy eyes catch the light from behind the bar.

"I'm fine without it," insists Nyota, hoping he'll drop the matter and get distracted by another skirt. The room is full of girls trying to secure payment tonight, surely they're more appealing if not easier to attract.

"You _are_ fine without it," he slightly slurs, shameless in his flirting. "It's Jim, Jim Kirk."

Nyota shakes her head. He deserves points for being persistent. It would be so easy to take the kid for a ride, get him all twisted up and hopeful before relieving him of his wallet and the impressive looking gun strapped to his hip, but she can't afford to be distracted when her real mark walks in no matter how much he offers himself up on silver platter.

"If you don't tell me your name, I'm going to have to make one up," persists Kirk in a sing-song voice.

She squeezes her hand into a fist, nails biting into the flesh of her hand. He just really doesn't know when to give up and take a hint. She simultaneously wants to punch him in his smug mouth while being captivated by his weird combination of brave stupidity. Reluctantly she says, "It's Uhura," knowing full well she'll come to regret it.

Kirk's face lights up. "Uhura, no way, that's the name I was going to make up for you." He leans a little more on the bar and shoots her a serious look. "Uhura what?"

"Just Uhura." Her patience is growing short; subtle rejection clearly not penetrating Kirk's thick head. She kind of doubts he would back off even if he knew how close to death he was.

"They don't have last names where you're from?" he asks, his brow wrinkled in confusion.

"Uhura is my last name."

"Well, they don't have first names where you're from?"

The question is oddly more complicated than it should be. She started this quest for vengeance telling the world her name was Uhura, the one thing her father gave her that no one can take away or tamper with. When she kills the men responsible, she wants there to be no doubt in their mind who she is, who her father was. They won't forget the name of their killer or the man they gunned down. Somewhere along the way Nyota became the last piece of that little girl her father use to hold in his arms, of the daughter her mother would tuck into bed and sing lullabies too. To share that name with anyone feels like a violation of the precious few memories she has left, like splaying herself open to the world. If anyone's going to get it, it's not going to be a cocky drunk in a one horse town that's looking for nothing more than twenty minutes in her pants.

"What brings a beautiful girl like you to a shit hole like this?" asks Kirk plopping himself down on the bar stool right next to her, having negotiated a switch with its pervious occupant.

"I'm the linguistic interpreter and negotiator for the Reeds Rail and Mining expansion survey expedition, but you have no idea what that is," challenges Nyota, hoping the conversation to finally die it's expected quick and premature death.

"You study languages and broker deals with the native tribes to secure land and resources for the Reeds Company," replies Kirk without blinking an eye. "It means you have a talented tongue."

"I'm impressed," she utters, somewhat caught off guard. The usual simpletons that find their way into her personal space generally lack the mental capacity for any kind of intelligent thought beyond food, sex and booze, let alone not taking offense to a woman with a brain and knowing what it is she does for a living. Dumb and cocky has just become a little bit interesting. "For a moment I thought you were a dumb hick who only has sex with farm animals."

"Well..." starts Jim leaning in closer, "not only."

"This asshole isn't bothering you is he?" asks Michaels, standing behind them, having ventured away from the survey team's table, because speaking of dumb hicks, she happens to know a few.

Uhura laughs, and refocuses on why she's even here to begin with. "Beyond belief, but it's nothing I can't handle," she assures Michaels. The last thing she needs is a pissing contest between two men that think they have claim over her.

"You could handle me, if that's an invitation?" promises Kirk, all smooth and intrigue, turning his attention back to Uhura.

"Hey," shouts Michaels, his big meaty hand clamping down on Kirk's shoulder and turning him away from Uhura. "You better mind your manners." His co-workers from the table make a not so subtle show of sauntering over, straightening their gun belts.

"Oh relax," dismisses Kirk with a wave of his hand, "it was a joke."

"Hey farmboy," insists Michaels, his voice rising and pulling the attention of the other patrons. "Maybe you can't count, but there's four of us and one of you." The threat is clear; Uhura is one of them and as such is beyond reach of any locals in a town so far from civilization it barely has a name.

Kirk sways a little but brings his hand up to pat Michaels on the cheek. "Well get some more guys and maybe it'll be a fair fight." He turns to regain the support of the bar but Michaels pulls him back and onto his fist.

Uhura would be impressed with the fact that drunk and stupid is holding his own against four less inebriated men, but the fight brings the Sheriff and a handful of deputies who shut down the saloon and drag the offenders off to jail. It means she's not going to get to her mark before the survey company pulls out of town.

The next morning she resigns. She wanted the opportunity to get firsthand experience with the Romulans, but vengeance waits for no woman and she's not going to lose her target a second time. She takes a deep breath and fortifies herself to spending some more time in this shithole of a town.

* * *

Uhura makes her way down the street, heading for the saloon and hopefully her destiny. It's already late, bordering on the end of the night before the men start their drunken stumble to their beds. Hopefully that means her mark will be well and truly plied with liquor, making it easier to work her charms without as much foreplay.

She turns down a side street and stops abruptly as a pair of boots and bundle of clothes fall from the sky and land at her feet. She glances up to see a man scrambling out the second story window of a home clad only in his pants; the items laying in the dirt clearly his. He shimmies down the side of the house under a vocal storm of expletives and threats from the other man leaning out the window, pushing a crying woman back. It's fairly obvious that the man who just dropped in front of Nyota was caught sleeping with the other man's wife and she can't begin to understand how people think they're going to get away with such crap when the man stands up and she gets a good look.

"You!" she exclaims, because really, it all makes sense now.

"Hi there," says Kirk, taking an appreciative look while grabbing his boots and quickly putting them on. He's in the middle of being hunted down by an irate husband and he's taking precious seconds to try and win her over with his charm.

"He's going to kill you," she says with a small amount of satisfaction, pointing up to the window where the man is trying to replicate Kirk's decent though he clearly lacks the agility.

Jim shrugs nonchalantly. "Didn't know she was married." He hastily puts his shirt on, glancing over his shoulder to gage how much time he has before the other man catches up to him. "You gonnna be at the saloon later?"

Uhura shoves him, not as hard as she's like but enough to get him to stumble a couple of paces. "You're dead," she warns as he finally starts to jog down the street. She'd like to watch Kirk get his smug face smashed in, maybe even offer to hold him for the guy now giving chase down the street, but she has more important things to take care of tonight.

* * *

Uhura downs her shot and keeps her face carefully schooled. She'd love nothing more than to run a knife through the hand slowly creeping up her thigh but she's waited five days for this opportunity another hour and a couple unwanted feels isn't going to deprive her now. She puts on her most pleasant come-hither smile and rewards Mr Sparage with the fakest giddy laugh she can muster. Personally she abhors women who act like this but Mr Sparage has a penchant for dumb and eager and she's willing to facilitate if it gets her alone in a room with him.

It's vengeance that gives her strength now, a need to avenger her father and finish what her mother started. Her personal dislike of the situation and man are inconsequential. She'll treat herself to a bath and a bottle after he's dead to remove any lingering trace of him from her person.

"I'll be right back little missy," slurs Sparage as he gets up and stumbles to the table at the back of the saloon.

A shudder of revulsion runs through her and she takes another shot to calm her nerves. It's not her first kill, but the last time there wasn't this much time to think about it. The thought of his old dirty hands roaming over her makes her sick and she feels for all the other young girls that he's forced himself on who didn't have the skills to fight back. She'd love nothing more than to make an example of him in front of everyone, unfortunately she has no desire to find herself at the end of a rope for murder because no one would believe it's self defense in this case. The man had a hand in murdering her father and she has to seek vengeance by whoring herself out to get the deed done in the dark away from witnesses and a chance to leave town unseen. She thinks good shouldn't have to slither in the dark to catch a glimpse of light.

"He doesn't strike me as your type," says Jim Kirk like they're old friends, plopping down on the stool beside her and ordering a drink from the bartender.

Uhura lets out a long, measured breath. Of all the idiots in the world, she has to find herself next to him, again. More disappointingly, he doesn't look any worse for wear. "Shouldn't you be in jail?" she snaps, going for an air of superiority, because that's where he ended up the first night they met. Who was dumb enough to unleash this menace on the world?

"Got out this morning," he replies, raising his glass in toast. "Though I'm surprised you're still here, since they let your buddies out earlier so they could continue on with the survey crew. Was it true love," he mocks, tilting his head towards the table at the back, "between you and Mr Scumbag there?"

"Shut up." Nyota can feel her anger rising. Kirk's not wrong that there's zero attraction there but she hates that some boy, who's too full of himself, is the one to notice.

"There are easier marks, you know. Less dangerous." Kirk seems genuinely concerned if not a little curious as if he has some experience in biting off more than he can chew.

"What makes you think it isn't true love?" she challenges fighting back the urge to vomit. "And I can take care of myself." She's not a damsel in distress and she most certainly doesn't need the likes of Jim Kirk to save her.

Kirk finishes his glass and demands a refill. He quirks his eyebrow and leans casually against the bar to face Uhura. "I believe you can take care of yourself. The true love part, not so much. Love doesn't look like it wants to stab someone in the throat with a fork... mostly."

"Right," laughs Nyota, "because I'm sure your life has been filled with love and not one night follies with prostitutes."

Kirk shrugs like he's heard it all before and can't muster the energy to refute the charges anymore. "You study languages, I study people."

"You don't know me," warns Uhura. If anyone's going to get to the deeper level of her motivations and raison d'etre it isn't going to be this drunken hick.

"I know you're not like most women. You were carrying a gun last time that looks like it was well taken care of, like you know how to use it. You're smart, working a job with rough men out on the frontier where rules and laws are sketchy at best but you don't seem afraid, which means you know how to handle yourself. You're employed, or you were, so you're not dependant on any man to survive. So naturally one could assume you wouldn't need to slum by selling yourself," continues Jim as though he's never been more sure of anything.

Uhura counters, "So how does that exclude an interest in Mr Sparage?" She's certainly not going to let him know he came anywhere near hitting the nail on the head.

"He only likes girls he can buy or intimidate so the only reason you'd be willing to put up with him is if you're looking to relieve him of a chunk of his fortune. And as I said there are less dangerous and easier marks stumbling around this saloon."

"You couldn't be more wrong. And you should mind your own business." There's hostility coming off of her amplified by the fact that Kirk couldn't be more right unless he knew exactly what she was after. Kirk radiates trouble and for some unfathomable reason he's been pulled into her orbit, threatening to derail her carefully crafted plans for a second time. If the stakes weren't so high, if she didn't have this mission riding on her shoulders she might find him endearing or at the very least someone she could form a tentative partnership with to pull off impressive cons across the west.

She's spared any more insight of Kirk's as Sparage returns to the bar, sliding Uhura off her stool so he can sit down before pulling her down on his lap. She decides she's going to take great pleasure in watching the light fade from his eyes the second she can get him alone tonight and that isn't going to come fast enough.

She keeps her eyes forward and her fake smile firmly in place, pointedly ignoring Kirk's unwavering interest. She doesn't need an audience, especially with Sparage's wandering hands wearing away the last of her patience. Delicately she removes his callused hand from worming its way down her bodice and firmly puts it back in his lap. It's hard to pull off helpless with a man finding a gun carefully concealed in the confines of her corset, of which Sparage's is getting precariously close to discovering. Not sure if he's especially stupid or alcohol stubborn, he brings his hand immediately back. "Not here, darling," she coos, removing his hand yet again.

"If a man wants to sample the goods, he should be allowed a little taste," drawls Sparage, leaning in and running his booze laden tongue from the top of her bosom to her ear.

"I think the lady's not interested," offers Jim, as Uhura pushes his hand away.

"Go away Kirk," hisses Nyota over Sparage's shoulder. Even if she did need help, she wouldn't accept his and all Kirk is going to accomplish is ruining her chance to at Sparage again tonight.

Sparage scowls like he just stepped in horseshit. "I think it's none of your business," he growls, wrapping his hand painfully tight around Uhura's arm like she's some prize and begins to drag her towards the staircase leading to the rooms upstairs.

"Let go!" warns Uhura. She's capable of walking and doesn't want the black and blue handprint as a reminder of her time with him.

Sparage stops short, his skin flushing red with anger. "You're not leading me on all night to get cold feet now," he warns, misinterpreting her protest with refusal for his plans.

The sound of a chair scraping across the floor echoes through the silence that now fills the saloon. "She said let go."

Uhura doesn't even need to turn around to know what idiot is rushing to her supposed defense. Her head drops in defeat as she realizes she's not going to get her chance to kill this son of a bitch tonight the way she planned.

Sparage lets go of Uhura's arm and lets his fist fly towards Kirk. Surprisingly, the kid is more agile and adept than the previous night would have let Nyota to believe. The two men trade blows, fists and blood raining down as other patrons flee their path.

Uhura pulls her gun. This isn't her plan but the weight of killing someone still hasn't settled on her very well and having to reschedule is making her nervous. It's a now or never moment, if wants to continue on this path, she must act now or fear will get the better of her and she'll have to live with her parent's ghosts forever. "Stop," she shouts, her voice surprisingly shaky, not unlike the gun in her hand.

Self defense has driven deadly action before but this is only the second time she's doing it for something other than survival. It's a line she never wanted to cross as a child, and knows deep down her father would never want her to either, but her lesson about family demands that she avenges those she loves by ending those who took them away.

Both Kirk and Sparage freeze, their eyes settling on the gun now wavering in their direction. Sparage's hand that was tangled up in Kirk's shirt for leverage in his next punch drops to his side as a wicked predatory smile warps his face. He takes a step towards Uhura, counting on his sheer size and malice to leave the little mouse before him paralyzed in indecision. "Now, now," he coos, "little girls shouldn't play with daddy's guns."

Sparage's hand moves quickly, finding his sidearm, raising it and all Uhura can do is gasp, unable to convince her finger to curl around the trigger in time. She didn't have to look her previous mark in the eye until after she delivered the fatal blow. The bang of the gun eclipses the noise in the room and for a painful minute time freezes to the tremendous thump of her heart. Panic grips the remaining patrons as the saloon girls scream and the men pull their own weapons preparing for a larger fight to break out.

Sparage collapses to the floor in a mountainous heap, blood pooling out from him staining the floor red. Slowly the image of Kirk, gun raised with wisps of smoke whispering off the barrel behind where Sparage was standing comes into focus. Uhura hadn't pulled the trigger, speed not being on her side but apparently Kirk _was_ the quickest draw today. Her brain can't seem to comprehend this turn of events as adrenaline floods her body with nowhere to go.

"What did you do?" she whispers, unable to take her eyes off the lifeless corpse. There's no answer and her eyes snap towards Kirk. She screams, "What did you do!"

This was supposed to be hers. Sparage was supposed to die with her name on his lips and images of the good man he helped gun down in cold blood dancing in his eyes as he departed this world and now...

"Saving your life," shouts Kirk over the commotion to be heard as he grabs her hand and pulls her through the crowd and outside.

Nyota wants to cry; not out of sadness but failure and disappointment. She's so lost in her lack of satisfaction at Sparage's death, Kirk manages to not only get her on a horse but lead them out of town and away from the impending wrath of the law and possible final act of the hangman's noose.

They don't stop until dawn paints the sky and they reach the crossroads on the trail. She should be thankful for Kirk's quick hands and even quicker thinking, she can't kill the other men on her list if she's dead, but all she can feel is hollow anger. "You had no right!" she screams, pushing him off his horse. That was her vengeance to take and it means nothing to her family if she isn't the one to kill these people.

Taken by surprise, he topples pretty easily, landing hard on the dry cracked earth. Jim's standing by the time Uhura get off her horse and is storming towards him, pure hatred on her face. It's misplaced for the most part but Kirk is a convenient target.

"He was going to shoot you," protests Jim, looking at her like she might be crazy. "And we certainly couldn't wait around to see if his buddies or the Sheriff were going to be okay with me killing him or you pulling a gun."

"I had it under control!" She can almost believe it herself. As a child she watched her mother kill with the ease of necessity and though she knows in her heart that the death of these men is justified, her hands still shake with the execution of the deed.

"Did you? Cause it looked to me like you couldn't pull the trigger," counters Jim, the volume of his voice matching hers.

Uhura pulls her gun and points it at Kirk's head. The tremor is gone and she glares at him viciously. "I have no problem pulling the trigger," she warns. She's spent over a year practicing her aim and skill before undertaking her mother's cause. She even has one kill under her belt; she's willing and capable of completing this mission. Last night was just... just a case of unfounded nerves that she won't let happen ever again.

"Then pull it," says Jim, low and measured and without the slightest trace of concern of what it will mean for himself if she takes him up on the offer. She has a gun in his face and doesn't seem to be afraid at all.

Uhura contemplates it for a moment. Her rage and anger needs to go somewhere and Kirk has denied her an outlet. In this is a moment she realizes she can either cross a line or she won't, become like them or stay the course of vengeance. Would it be as simple to kill Kirk as she's pretending it will be? Will those blue eyes haunt her or will killing him remove any morality she has left? She bites her lip and uncocks her gun. "I'm not here to kill to you and I owe you one for getting me out of town. But understand this Kirk, if I ever see you again, I'm going to eviscerate you."

"If you owe me one, how can I collect if I can't see you again?"

She pulls a knife from her boot and brandishes it front of his face. "First, I'll start with the parts you like; your balls than your dick. After I make you eat them we'll move on to other body parts. Understands?"

Kirk raises his hands in surrender and takes a step back. "My balls are good where they are. We won't have a problem."

She gets back on her pilfered horse, the promise searing itself in her bones and rides as far away from Kirk as she can. As she rides into the next town, she realizes it wasn't a complete loss. Jim Kirk has taught her another valuable life lesson: a quick hand is life saving. She'll regroup and practice more; enter a few gun draw competitions to refine her skills until she has the fastest hands. If she doesn't have to think about what she's doing, it shouldn't be a problem when she resumes hunting down the remaining men on her list. Looking them in the eye before pulling the trigger won't be a problem next time.

* * *

The amber liquid burns its way down her throat, an old familiar feeling that never gets old. Nyota is drinking top shelf whisky to mark her historic occasion. It took a few years but she's buried everyone she needed to. With nothing pressing on the horizon, spending the week letting alcohol wash away the bad memories seems like a fitting climax. For the first time her next move is solely up to her, to be whatever she wants. Freedom feels... empty, maybe a little lonely. She was successful but somehow feels as though she lost her purpose. This week is a celebration that's two parts brooding.

The clink of several coins hitting the table startles her out of her reverie. Most people don't dare to encroach on her space. There's usually one at the start of the night but after she hands him his balls, mostly metaphorically, sometimes literally, everyone else is wise enough to keep a wide berth. The man that sits across from her clearly didn't get the message; both this time and last time she saw him.

Her hand falls on top of the pile of coins as she slides them back across the table. "I don't work for the army. Massacring tribes and tricking them into giving up their land isn't really my thing." Her face is impassive but her voice is direct and clear. The offer had come a few years ago, her reputation with language and culture becoming a thing of legend; a valuable resource not just to her but to others as well. If she was in it for the money, she could be rich several times over, but she has... no had, a mission that didn't leave a lot of time to explore and avoid the pitfalls of such job opportunities.

"I'm not so sure I work for the army anymore either," replies the officer, sliding the coins back towards Nyota. It's a handsome gesture, worth at least a listen.

"I thought you were their poster child, Captain Pike. What happened?" Nyota can't say she doesn't like Pike as a person; he seems like a good man who lacks the bigger picture or at least the finer points of those who fall to the wayside as progress sweeps the land.

Pike shrugs. "We're having a disagreement. But that's not why I'm here."

"Why are you here?" asks Uhura. Curiosity is getting the better of her but mostly she wants to hear the tale of how a career army man like Pike suddenly isn't in love anymore.

"I know you've had experience with Jim Kirk before," starts Pike, ignoring the eye roll at the kid's name.

It's been a couple of years but the very mention of his name irks her like an itch she can't scratch. "This isn't a good way to start a conversation, especially if you want something from me."

"He's in trouble," he continues.

"There's a surprise." Really Pike might as well tell her the sky is blue.

"He tried to help some people and others aren't seeing it like that. I think he might come to you for help."

Her opinion of Kirk isn't the highest, and the kid definitely has a few things coming his way but trying to save a whole tribe of people shouldn't be one of those things. Despite the swagger, cockiness and brashness, Kirk is oddly capable of helping those who need it. He's bold but she doesn't think Kirk is especially stupid and seeking her out is either blindingly stupid or an act of utter desperation after how she left thing. "I doubt Kirk's dumb enough to come to me for help. And what could I possibly help him with?"

"I think he's desperate enough to take help from anyone right now. And you can get him through the valley the fastest with your connections to the tribes there. That kind of help can get him out of the clutches of his pursuers." Pike points to the stack of coins. "That's payment for you to consider providing your services should he show up here."

"Consideration? That's it? What if I decide no?"

"Then he'll have to find another way through and you'll have to live with letting a good man suffer when you could have helped. Hear him out, that's all I ask." Pike excuses himself from the table and leaves.

The booze isn't as comforting anymore. She's been searching for her next path but this seems like stepping into the middle of a lake and not knowing how to swim.

* * *

Seeing Kirk again in person ignites a fury in Nyota despite the supposed circumstances. "What the hell are you doing here?" she shouts as she slams her knife into the table Kirk and a Vulcan are sitting at with tremendous force. It's some horrible combination of memories about evil men and a time when her strength wavered.

The Vulcan raises his eyebrow at the display that has gotten the momentary attention of the other patrons in the seedy and smoky saloon, but otherwise doesn't move a muscle.

Jim flinches at the force in which the knife is embedded in the table mere inches from his hand. "It's nice to see you too, Uhura. Still delightful as ever I see," says Jim with as much bravado as he can muster while thinking of all the things she promised to do to him with that knife the last time they crossed paths.

Uhura crosses her arms and glares at Kirk with an expression that screams 'make it good, or so help you.' She doesn't trust Pike and his vague story and payoff and she certainly doesn't trust Kirk. If it's a set up, it's certainly elaborate but she doesn't think an actual Vulcan would go along with a dog and pony show to obtain her skills.

Jim straps on his most dazzling smile and cranks up the charm a couple of watts. "This is Spock." He points his thumb towards the Vulcan beside him, ever mindful of just how close the blade is to his hand.

Uhura glares for a second more before turning her attention entirely to Spock. There's something about him that is captivating and it's pulling her in. Her shoulders relax and she extends a hand giving the Vulcan salute warmly. "I'm Uhura," she says with warmth before turning her icy glare back on Kirk. Her hostility promises Jim has about a minute to live unless he fills that time with meaningful words.

Jim kicks out the empty chair at their table, relieved when Uhura takes a seat and the rest of the onlookers go back to their own conversations and card games. "I'm in trouble," starts Jim.

"What a surprise," huffs Uhura. "Who is she this time?"

"It's not like that," he promises. "We need to get through the Tellarite lands. You're the only one I know that can negotiate our passage."

"Go around," counters Uhura. The Tellarite are notoriously elusive, except when people trespass on their land, which combined with their willingness for bloodshed and the natural inhospitably of the land makes it better to avoid the trail. The trail through their territory however takes two weeks off a person's journey and allows anyone brave enough to traverse it to be left alone in their travels.

"We can't. Besides every bounty hunter in the territory is looking for us and the whole army is gunning for us as well."

Uhura leans back in her chair, a wicked grin melting her features. "Only James Kirk would do something so monumentally stupid, the whole army would be after him."

"Despite what Lieutenant Kirk's reputation would suggest, our current predicament is the result of his attempt to foil the army's plans to slaughter the Vulcan people in order to obtain our land under the guise of peaceful negotiation," interjects Spock.

A ripple of sadness washed over Uhura, leaving sympathy painted across her delicate features. She can almost hear the heart break behind Spock's words. "The army wiped out the Vulcans?" she breaths so quiet it's almost lost in the noise of the saloon. There are skirmishes between the various tribes and the army, with heavy casualties on both sides but usually both sides still exist after the battles.

"They tried. Mostly succeeded," mumbles Jim, sinking into his seat and throwing back the last dredges in his glass. The self-incrimination is evident in every line of his body.

Uhura locks eyes with Spock, her hand falling gently on his for a moment as she says, "I'm so sorry." She knows what it's like to lose family, to be an outsider and be left with nothing when family is gone. More importantly she knows what it's like to be the victim of another's ambition.

Spock pulls his hand back slowly, uncomfortable with not only the touch but the magnitude of attention from what amounts to a complete stranger. "Jim did manage to ensure survivors that are currently relocating in the hopes of rebuilding our tribe."

She wants to think poorly of Kirk, knows his type all too well, but the pieces of his puzzle are piling up to build someone she might emphasize with.

"We need to lose some bounty hunters and gain some distance and you're the only one I know that can help us get through Tellarite territory. Please, Uhura, we need your help," says Jim, hoping to gain some compassion from Uhura without calling in the favor she owes him. He'd rather save that for when she's really going to dismember him.

The Vulcan card does the trick, tugging at whatever heartstrings Uhura keeps hidden because not only does she agree to get them through the territory but she rides with them. Her innate talent for languages and culture means they can stick to the routes less travelled, out of sight from people looking to cash in on the bounty on their heads and who hate the army as much as they do.

Spock is not only a repository of all the information on Vulcans she could ever hope for but the provider of the most intellectually stimulating conversations she's ever had. She watches the lengths Kirk goes to in order to keep them safe and listen to the risks he's taken to do right by others. When Pike finally meets up with them, Uhura is finally privy to some of the deeper darker workings of Jim Kirk and what becomes the ultimate goal of the rag tag team of misfits that seems to have them all fall together. Much to her relief, Pike assumes command of the group, and she finds she has no reason to say no, and a million surprising reasons to say yes when he asks her to stay and help them track down a villain named Nero. It seems the culmination of all her life lessons have led her to this point: survival, fast hands, people doing wrong to innocents just to get ahead and more crucially, the importance of family and the strength they can give each other. Without a mission of her own, she accepts Kirk's mission and throws herself once more into the struggle of vengeance for innocents wronged, this time with family by her side.

* * *

 ** _Thank you to everyone who read this story and/or commented, you're the best._**  
 ** _Thanks to CaptainNinapants for beta reading this story._**

 **Next story: Sulu's story _May you Live in Interesting Times_**


	6. Sulu

**May You Live in Interesting Times**

Hikaru Sulu is five years old when he learns he has a gift. It's not being humble and hard working in which his parents have instilled in him since birth by virtue of shining example, though he has those gifts too, rather something he never dreamed to possess. It's a regular trip through town to deliver the laundry to the men staying at the mining bunkhouse with he and his sister trailing after their mother like little ducklings, when something catches his eye. He dumps his sack of laundry at the bunkhouse steps and silently slips away without his mother's knowledge and despite his sister's warning glare.

He navigates around the legs of the men in the crowd until he reaches the wooden coral post and his first clear view of what's piqued the interest of the men in town. A roar goes up in the crowd as a young man is tossed like a bag of potatoes from the bucking black beauty going wild in the coral. As soon as the man hits the dirt, another bravely tries to mount the horse and force it into submission.

Hikaru stands there captivated as each man takes a turn, undeterred by the failure of those who went before them. There's a moment as he makes eye contact with the wild stallion that he can't help but feel for its plight. Days ago, it was wild and free with endless possibilities before it and now it's penned with the townsfolk mocking it for sport. He can share this majestic beast's fears. The horse is trapped by barriers made by man while he is trapped by tradition, honor, customs and bigotry. If they mean to break this untamed spirit, he can't help but feel they're going about it the wrong way. Forcing a square peg in a round hole never works, much like his father's insistence at having a quiet life running the town laundry is what's going to make a young boy that dreams of adventure and excitement happy.

The next challenger is thrown in spectacular fashion pulling the attention of the crowd away from the horse and towards the man sprawled in the dirt, in need of the town physician. Ducking under the coral rail, Hikaru steps away from the safety of outside the pen and well into the reach of the frightened animal more than willing to take its fear and frustration out on him. Slowly he approaches the horse offering soothing sounds and an outstretched hand whenever if rears and kicks.

His heart is pounding the whole time but something is compelling him to the horse's wild untamed spirit. The danger is so much more interesting than the safe quiet of his life. Eventually his hand makes contact with the smooth skin and after a few shakes of the horse's head, it lets his hand settle there. "Easy, buddy," soothes Hikaru. The tentative trust between them spurs Hikaru to be bolder in his petting, eventually bringing a second hand up to scratch around the horse's ears. The horse is calm and relaxed, nothing like it was before Hikaru stepped into the coral. All the seasoned ranch hands couldn't calm this wild beast the way his touch seem to sooth its soul.

"Well would you look at that," says Richard Trist one of the old ranchers. He walks up behind Hikaru with a bridal in hand. The horse is calm and friendly, a complete contrast to the uncontrollable animal that was dragged into the coral at the start of the day. It's big and strong, with all the makings of a prized work horse providing someone can tame it. In all his years working with animals, he's never seen a change so quickly. "You have a real talent, son," he says as he gets the bridal over the horse's head without incident. "Could use someone with your touch around the ranch."

Hikaru's never considered a future as a cowboy before, roaming the land herding cattle, training horses. It's the first time anyone's suggested anything other than working for his family and the quiet mundane existence they've carved out for themselves. The closest he's ever really been to an animal is the butchered ones his mother brings home for dinner but there's something satisfying in feeling the complete trust this horse feels in his presence. Cowboys have adventures and lead interesting lives; it's all a boy can dream about.

Before he can respond he feels the vice like grip of his mother's hand twisting his ear painfully as she drags him away from the stallion. "Stay away from such wild animals, Hikaru. You could have been hurt. And we have much to do today."

Hikaru trails along, silent as his mother scolds him. He's too preoccupied with watching Mr Trist take his new acquisition to the blacksmith to mind his mother's words. Quiet and boring isn't for him, he longs for the excitement of the Wild West. He's going to be a cowboy when he grows up.

* * *

His parents never buy into the idea of being a cowboy and constantly explain that his duty is to the family and its survival, not flights of fancy that hold no real future. Still, it doesn't deter Hikaru from taking odd jobs from Mr Trist to help feed and train his horses on his way home from returning client's laundry. He's pretty sure his mother knows what he's up to by the grass and dirt stains on his clothes when he returns later than any of his siblings do when completing the return run but the money he brings home disguised as 'extra tips' has his father convinced he's the hard worker he wants Hikaru to be.

Mr Trist develops a reputation for some of the best horses in the territory, with people coming far and wide to buy from his coveted stock. The rancher is making money hand over fist, with a compelling offer to provide a young teen with steady work and a pay that rivals what his family brings in through the hard and laborious efforts of running a laundry. On the ranch, Hikaru is equal to the other men maybe even valued more by Mr Trist for his skill at working with the horses. The hate that seems to flow from the townsfolk, sneers and snide comments about his heritage and skin color, never seem to penetrate the property line.

There's a quiet peacefulness on the ranch that soothes Hikaru's soul. If his father would just hear him out, he thinks his parents might be happy living on a ranch. The frantic pace of town life melts away as nature wraps its arms him, shutting out the complex social problems and expectations that flow around him like a raging river back home.

Animals are uncomplicated and non judgemental. The Clydesdale, Ranger, never laughs at Hikaru's plans for the future, he's simply happy to have someone feed him apples on late summer afternoons. Hikaru runs his hand gently up and down Ranger's neck as he grabs another apple from his pouch.

"You bring out the gentle soul in him," says Mr Trist as he saunters over to the coral and folds his arms over the post. "I ain't seen him like that with anyone but you."

"He's just misunderstood," mumbles Hikaru, ruffling Ranger's mane.

"I wish I could talk ya into workin here full time. I think ya could have a real future here," offers Mr Trist, not for the first time. The kid has helped him make his fortune and while it's not enough to push him into the upper class of society, he's never had to worry about what tomorrow brings. Not only would a steady job be a modicum repayment to the boy for such a service, but the honorable thing to do for someone who help establish his own piece of parades. It doesn't hurt that he can see the same desire to be more than people assumed he could grow up to be dance in Hikaru's eyes every time he talks about the future.

"I'll think about it Mr Trist," he sighs. The opportunity for something better is right within his grasp, his family's grasp, and his father is too stubborn and set in his ways to take it. He'd have a better chance of convincing Ranger to grow wings and fly than get his father to give up the family business and let Hikaru lead the family in a new direction.

His parents work themselves to the bone and have nothing to show for it. This shiny new world that they risked everything to travel to won't let them be more than they are now. This is a chance for them to partner with Mr Trist and find a better way of life. Sure, Mr Trist would have the final say and the only one clients would deal with, but as long as their burden is lifted what does it matter? There's only so much laundry to do in town, certainly not enough for Hikaru and his thirteen brothers and sisters to be profitable with.

It's a long walk home that afternoon as Hikaru weighs his options. At fourteen years old he wouldn't be the youngest person to strike out on his own. He has more than his parents had when they set sail to a world they'd never seen before, Which must have been an adventure in and of itself, one his father sees fit to deny him.

He looks out to the horizon and the splattering of colors that frame the setting sun. That's one thing they have in common; this is the only view they know. His parents have been here thirty years and haven't seen any more than the rail line his father worked on until he could repay his debt for passage and this town that Hikaru has never stepped foot out of.

Mr Trist is offering him a permanent job, that doesn't requiring repayment of any debt or servitude, away from a society that seems more concerned with the color of his skin than what he has to offer. It's hard to find a downside but something is making his gut turn to lead at the thought of walking away from his family that'll be too stubborn to join him. The future of the family falls on his and his younger brother and brother-in-law's shoulders. It's almost too much to bear.

He'll send them money, most of his pay in fact, because Trist has been gracious enough to offer lodging on his property in addition to a handsome wage. It will be money his father will undoubtedly be too stubborn to take; Hikaru's defiance a cut too deep to allow his father to accept the help. He'll have to give it to his oldest sister, Sayuri, who manages the books for the family business and who isn't too proud to make a few accounting errors to hide Hikaru's contribution if it means easing their parent's burden.

All his indecision goes out the window as he rounds the corner off of main street to the 'Chinese' neighborhood tucked out of sight of the predominantly white town. His father is standing on the wooden walkway of their home and business with his mother standing tall and proud dutifully behind him as his siblings crowd around the small paned window inside to stare at the four men in the street with torches. He stands there frozen watching the display of small minded bigotry manifesting right outside his door.

"Ya got till sun down ta' morrow to pack up the little woman and the kiddies and git outta here," snarls one of the ruffians. He wobbles slightly as he viciously emphasises each word by pointing towards Hikaru's family home.

"No," replies his father, calm and regal in the face of an organized mob of drunks. "This is our home." It's built with the blood, sweat and tears of an entire family over thirty years. It's the culmination of a man chasing a better life for his wife and children. He's too old to start over and needs to leave his children with a solid foundation on which to grow their own families.

One of the men throws a half drank bottle of booze at the house. It smashes against the word boards spraying glass and alcohol everywhere. The younger children inside let out cries of fear and surprise as the already hate filled conversation turns violent.

"Not anymore," a man counters, puffing up his chest to intimidate the older couple.

"Your kind is takin up valuable real-estate. We need to make room for proper white folks," adds another member of the mob as he jumps up onto the walkway. Mrs Sulu lets out a startled gasp as the man grabs her by the arm and pulls her into his embrace.

"Don't touch her," warns her husband, taking a step towards the pair. He stops as he catches the glimpses of cold steel in the flickering light of the torches. He doesn't believe in violence as a rule so there are no guns in the home, no weapons in the house that can aid him running these vial men off other than his family's ancestral sword which hangs over the fire for decretive purposes. There's no way to get to it before the ones he loves are hurt and he has no delusion that these men's guns will do more damage to his family than he could inflict with the ancient weapon.

The man on the walk way nuzzles into Sulu's wife's neck. "Could always find a room for ya with the other girls in the brothel," coos the man.

Mrs Sulu raises her hand and drags her nails across the man's face at the same moment Mr Sulu grabs him by the arm and tosses him off the walk way into the dirt he belongs. The rest of the gang pull their weapons from their holsters and aim them at the couple while their friend tries to salvage his dignity as he picks himself up off the ground.

Hikaru starts running towards his parents. "Leave them alone!" His approach captures everyone's attention, especially that of the guns, loaded and ready to discharge.

"No!" shouts Mr Sulu, stepping away from his wife to put himself between the men and his son. Hikaru is stubborn and willful, all traits that he inherited from his father and all the things that are going to put him in harm's way now. He cannot cling to stubborn pride when it's one of his own children staring down the barrel of a gun. Pride and passion took him and his new bride from Japan to the new world to escape the shackles of life back home. Perseverance and stubbornness helped him survive on this land and build a life for his family. When it comes to his children, he's not too proud to beg or throw his personal version of an empire away for their safety. "We will leave in the morning," he concedes.

Mrs Sulu wraps her arms tightly around her oldest boy. Hikaru clings to his mother tightly but he can't believe his ears. How can his father capitulate to these people? This is their home and they have no right to try and push them off of it. "Father," he snaps.

"One day old man. Or we're comin for ya and those pretty daughters of yours," warns the leader of the mob before signalling his followers to follow him back to the saloon to celebrate in their success.

Mr Sulu walks into the house without a word; his head hung low and sits next to the fire in deep contemplation.

"How can he just roll over like that?" demands Hikaru, pulling away from his mother's embrace.

His mother shakes her head but he storms into the house after his father anyways. "Hikaru," she pleads after him but he ignores her.

"How can you just cower for them?" spits Hikaru. His father built something from nothing and has run the family with an iron fist and spirit but in the face of a handful of drunks itching to spread injustice, the man wants to run away like a dog. This is the life he's demanded Hikaru follow at the expense of his own dreams and at the first test of devotion out of his father, the man folds. He grabs the sword from the mantle, a weapon he's seen capture both beauty and force in his father's hand when he would sneak downstairs at night to silently watch his father practice with it in secret. It's a weapon that could protect this family the way it has for generations of Sulus before them. "Nothing will change if you let them get away with this. What do you think is going to happen to this family if we're forced to flee this town and hide somewhere? Think about your children for once!"

"Hikaru!" snaps his mother, quiet disapproval lacing her voice.

He regrets the viciousness of his words but his point is still valid. His whole life he's been told his future is run the laundry for the benefit of the family and now his father is willing to force the family to start from nothing again because he won't stand up to a couple of bullies who decided to get brave tonight."

"I am," counters his father as he rises from his chair. They stare at one another for a moment before he begins to walk away.

Hikaru grips the handle of the sword tightly. "You shame our family by being such a coward," he adds because he can't seem to stop himself now that he's openly criticising his father. His father doesn't stop walking, leaving the house in silence.

Mrs Sulu walks up to her son and slaps his across the face. The slap echoes through the home; his siblings have sought the safety of their bedroom to avoid the argument unfolding.

Hikaru rubs his cheek but the sting doesn't want to go away. In a small voice he defends, "We'll have nothing left if we walk away." The we is rather ironic considering just hours earlier he was pondering walking away himself but his leaving would reap benefits for the family. This is walking away to the detriment of the family's survival and worse, letting the world say it's okay to do this to them because they're not white. They have sixteen mouths to feed and shelter in their family; starting over in another place won't be easy and certainly taxing on his already elderly parents.

His mother's shoulders sag. "When you have children one day, Hikaru, you will understand." She gives him a small smile before making her way to bed. Tomorrow will be taxing and she'll need all the strength she can get to see it through.

Hikaru stands there in the dying light of the fire. He doesn't need children to understand the difference between right and wrong or that running now will mean the family will be running for forever. If these men are allowed to get away with this, it will happen again to both their family and someone else's family. The whole neighborhood is ready to flee and someone needs to take a stand. He doesn't need children to know that this is worth fighting for. His children will deserve a better life than this and someone needs to stand up for it. He thought his father was strong enough to be the one to do that and mourns the loss of the childish belief that his father could move mountains.

* * *

It isn't hard to get lost in the crowd. The whole neighbourhood bands together to form a wagon train to leave town and as sunset approaches the now displaced group begins their long arduous journey to find another town to attempt to settle in and rebuild their dreams.

Hikaru slips away from his family and pillages a shot gun from his neighbour's wagon. He's never stolen anything before in his life but figures this is a worthy cause. Shotgun in hand he heads back to the house and climbs into the rafters to perch. It was a good hiding spot to avoid his siblings when they pestered him too much but tonight it serves as a good spot to get a couple of decent shots off against any intruders.

He's never seen a dead person before, certainly hasn't shot or killed someone himself but helping on the ranch has exposed him to guns and their use in putting down animals and killing the predators that threaten the herds. He believes in his cause and that has to be enough to pull the trigger. A lot of people are counting on him even if they don't know it.

Hikaru settles into wait. The mob will come to check and make sure everyone's fled. When they do, they're going to find that not everyone can be pushed around.

* * *

Himari Sulu pauses at the top of the hill to catch her breath. She takes one last look towards town, the place, she's called home for decades. Its loss is regrettable and starting again unappealing, but she'll follow her husband's lead. A home means nothing if their children's blood is spilled to keep it. She begins her mental head count of the children to make sure none of the younger ones are lagging behind and comes up one short. Fear turns her soul as she realizes Hikaru isn't among the group.

"Sayuri," she calls, getting her eldest's attention. "Where is Hikaru?"

Sayuri shrugs her shoulders. The last time she can remember seeing her brother was sitting solemnly at the breakfast table that morning, after that she's been too busy to keep tabs on him.

Himari looks around frantically one more time but comes up with the same result. She runs to her husband and grabs his arm. She holds back her tears but knows there's only one reason Hikaru wouldn't be with them. "Itsuki, Hikaru is missing."

Itsuki clenches his jaw but otherwise looks passive. He should have known his oldest son that challenges him at every turn would not follow along quietly. The trouble with youth, he thinks, is the willful stubbornness unchecked by wisdom. He reaches into the cart pulling the few possessions the family could bring with them and pulls out his sword. Weapon in hand he begins the march back to town.

* * *

Shooting, it turns out, is harder than the other ranch hands made it look. Hikaru's first shot is wide missing every member of the group that comes to ransack the remains of the now abandoned homes and his second doesn't prove any better. He doesn't get a chance to get a third off. The bullet that whizzes past his head and slams into the support beam is enough to rattle him and lose his footing on the beam sending him tumbling to the ground. There's a painful snap in his leg before agony rushes from the limb to the rest of his body, stealing his breath.

The mob maybe comprised of dumb drunk hicks but even they're smart enough to seize this opportunity. Hikaru is hauled to his feet and personally acquainted with a few fists.

"Looky here," croons one of the men. "We got ourselves a chinaman that can't seem to follow directions."

Hikaru screws up his face as the man's rancid hot breath clogs his mouth. He can smell the booze rolling off the group that clearly needs some liquid courage to run off defenceless families in the dark of night. He struggles in the grip of the men holding him but doesn't have the strength to shake off two grown men and certainly can't do it with a broken leg.

"Ya coolies are all the same; movin in and crowdin our towns. It's time ya learned your place boy and that's lickin the shit off me boots."

"I'm Japanese for starters. And this is our town too," spits Hikaru in an act of defiance. He's terrified but isn't going to give these goons the satisfaction of making him cower. He receives a backhand in response that sends him sprawling to the ground and seeing stars.

He braces himself for the next hit but it doesn't come. What he does see from his vantage point on the floor makes him give his head a shake. The backhand must have been harder than he thought because there's no way it's his father wielding a sword and fighting the group who are equal parts surprised and dumbfounded. He tries to get up but the room swims harshly and his broken limb lets him crash back to the ground.

Itsuki manages to take out two of seven men before they even realize there's someone more formidable than a child in the room. The next two are a little hard as he engages in the dance of combat and dodging the shots from the other men. He engages in a brawl with the fifth man, tousling back and forth and into furniture as they struggle for supremacy. The objects on the table go crashing to the floor as it gets overturned in the fight, including the oil lamp. When Itsuki is finished with the fifth man, fire has spread to cover half the house and the last two men have fled into the night.

Ignoring the aches and pains that run along his body, Itsuki makes his way over to his son and pulls him to his feet. There's a deep bruise blossoming across his cheek and he's favoring his leg greatly but for the most part his boy is alright, more importantly alive. Slowly they hobble to the door, with Hikaru gritting his teeth the whole way. There's no time to tend to the leg with the flames licking higher and higher.

They're almost at the door when an ominous creek rumbles through the house. Itsuki has precious seconds to push Hikaru out the door before a roof beam comes tumbling down on top of him.

Hikaru hit the ground hard. White hot pain laces up his leg forcing a cry of agony from his lips. It's nothing compared to the primal animalistic wail of loss that bubbles forth like a geyser when he watches helplessly from safety as his father is lost in the inferno that's ravaging their home.

* * *

When Hikaru's leg is healed he sets out into the world leaving his mother and siblings in the care of his Uncle's family. His mother is too consumed with grief to fight with him about staying and while Sayuri is refusing to speak to him, he knows she understands his need to go. He can't stay here anymore and needs something to wipe the memories of that night away. Mr Trist's ranch isn't an option; those who survived his father's blade regaled the sheriff with a much different story than the truth, making the Sulu family unwelcome to return to the area.

He needs to find some sort of employment to help support the family and other than his father's sword the only thing he has is his gift with animals. He drifts for a long time, doing odd jobs here and there that pay little and last as long as his desire to stay in the town which works out well for all parties.

Anger at the world in general smoulders under his skin and he's quick to let it manifest in fist fights at every opportunity. He couldn't fight the mob so he'll fight anyone else he can. He's got a job in Risa helping the blacksmith shoe horses and spends his nights hanging out in the local saloon drinking until someone makes a remark about his heritage or his age and then he spends his time learning the finer points of fighting, usually culminating in him losing the fight but exercising his need for a rumble for the night. His father would be disappointed in the path he's choosing to walk but it's not as if his father is here anymore to lecture him on the matter.

Hikaru's in one particular nasty brawl, in which he's holding his own successfully this time when a hand clamps down on his shoulder and pulls him off the asshole that thought he could talk about Hikaru like he didn't understand English. Naturally that means that someone else wants to join the fight and he's quick to direct his aggression towards whoever is pulling him away.

Unlike the drunk in the saloon, this adversary is a little more skilled and a little more prepared. He's got Hikaru in a head lock as he escorts the struggling Hikaru out of the salon and tosses him in the water trough on the street with a, "take a minute and cool off."

Hikaru comes up coughing and sputtering, the cold water a complete shock to the system but does serve to calm him down and reduce his rage to a well aimed simmer. He kicks the side of the trough but gains nothing but causing a wave motion to wash back on him, splashing and filling his mouth with the dirty water.

"You about done?"

Hikaru glares at the soldier that's looking at him expectantly. "Yeah," he snarls. To his surprise the soldier offers his hand to help Hikaru out of the trough. He begrudgingly accepts and attempts to wring out his shirt once he's out of the water. "The army got a vested interest in saloon brawls now?" he asks.

The officer smiles. "No. But I might have a vested interest in you."

"Why's that?" He can't help the attitude. The soldier's done nothing beyond giving Hikaru an unexpected and unrequested bath but that's enough to earn his ire these days. That and most people's interest in him hasn't produced the best outcomes in his life.

"I've been watching you for a couple of days..."

"If you need someone to shine your shoes for you, you're barking up the wrong tree. I'm no one's personal servant."

"Wasn't looking for one. I'm Captain Christopher Pike and the army might just be what you're looking for."

Hikaru snorts. "I don't exactly fit the army's idea of a recruit, Captain Pike."

Pike tips his head in agreement. "Maybe not, but you fit mine."

"How so?"

"You don't back down, even if you're not sure you can win. You're not a blacksmith by trade but you picked up enough to be competent pretty quickly. Enough raw talent that you could be trained to be a decent soldier. And I've seen you with the horses; you have a way with animals. Having a dependable horse to ride into battle with is important." Hikaru is about to walk away when Pike adds, "You know how to use that sword you carry around in your sac?"

Hikaru stops. "I know enough." It's a lie. He's never had training. He just knows a few moves he remembers his father displaying during his late night practicing. The finer points of his education are the pointy end needs to go into your enemy but as for any skill against someone who uses a sword, he's woefully inadequate. It's mostly a reminder of what the world has taken from him and the illusions it left him with.

"I could set you up with someone that knows how to use it. Roof over your head, steady work training horses for my regiment and training until your old enough to join," offers Pike with the most sincere look Hikaru's ever seen. "Join and you could have something worth fighting for that'll make a difference in people's live instead of trying to satisfy that chip on your shoulder."

"Why do you care?" Not many strangers have really given a damn about him. Fewer still offer opportunities. There has to be a catch in this somewhere, he just has to find it.

"Under the brooding and bar fights I see someone looking for something better, a chance to be better. The whole world is lying ahead of you; you just have to go about another way of getting there. What have you got to lose?"

What does he have to lose? At the very least he gets a place to sleep and maybe a new set of skills to use to his advantage at the cost of training a couple of horses. It's nothing he hasn't done in the past and he can't say he doesn't like the work. Reluctantly, Hikaru agrees and come next morning he finds himself riding out of town with Pike heading to a homestead further west than he's ever been yet to study, train and work for an old friend and supposed sword master of the captain's.

"So why do they call him Three Fingered Jack?" Hikaru asks when they crest the last hill that overlooks the homestead. It's picturesque and peaceful and so not like the string of towns he's brawled his way through the last couple of years.

Pike smiles. "He wasn't always a master with a sword," he says before encouraging his horse to pick up the pace.

They reach the house only to be greeted by a man that looks like he was trapped in a mine, deep in the forest for the last two years and had to crawl back to civilization on his own. Hikaru has a moment that he feels he needs to re-evaluate his decision to take Captain Pike up on his offer as he contemplates spending the next two years as this mountain man's student. He hardly seems like a man that can turn out well trained military recruits, let alone someone that studied the finer points of fencing but Pike insists his haggard friend is one of the best.

Pike and Jack greet each other with a hardy handshake and forceful hug before heading inside for a drink. Hikaru lingers outside for a moment, taking it all in. The homestead reminds Hikaru of Mr Trist's ranch, complete with a coral of some of the most majestic looking horses he's ever seen in his whole life. This might just be what his weary soul needs right now.

* * *

The work is hard and Jack is a stern and demanding task master but at the end of everyday Hikaru feels like he gained something, physically, mentally or spiritually. Jack teaches him about plants and food and from that comes the value of patients. His skills become sharper and more fine tuned as he learns to do more damage with one well timed blow than many thrown in haste or desperation.

One day he passes by a mirror and realises he's not staring back at some reckless kid with some flight of fancy dream but a man with passion, drive and purpose and the skill to turn any dream into a reality. He sees his father in his own reflection.

When Pike returns to collect him on the heels of war he feels prepared for whatever awaits him. He saddles up his latest group of trained horses and takes them to the rest of Pike's troops. While battle isn't anything his father would have wanted for him, Hikaru is being given the opportunity to stand up and defend those that can't do it for themselves and this time succeed in the task. That is something his father could be proud of. It's not the life of a cowboy he dreamed of but this somehow, this seems like a better dream.

* * *

 ** _Thank you to everyone who read this story and/or commented, you're the best._**

 **Next story: Chekov's** **We All See the Same Sun, but We don't All Have the Same Fun**


	7. Chekov

**We All See the Same Sun, but We don't All Have the Same Fun**

The children run down the street chasing a hoop as it rolls along and swatting at it with willow sticks trying to keep the hoops momentum going. Pavel could tell them the best spot to make contact with the hoop to maintain its trajectory but he just smiles as the group passes. There's a crackle of excitement in the air as the children leave the one room school house enjoying their brief bit moments of freedom before they're inundated with chores. Pavel doesn't fit in with the other children, far beyond the fact that he doesn't attend class at all or know the what it's like to be that carefree, even for a moment.

Winter is coming, Pavel Chekov can feel it in his bones. The days grow short as the nights grow long and the pathetic rags he calls clothes are doing less and less to stave off the chill. Survival is going to require a different tactic is he wants to see spring. What that tactic is, he isn't sure, his mother was the one that navigated things like food and shelter and now she's gone; orphaned since the tender age of seven.

His mother had been talented with a needle and thread, working after hours for the town tailor for a meager wage, enough to pay for space on the floor to sleep next to the stove in the kitchen at the old flophouse. Pavel lacks the skill to manipulate a needle like she could but the tailor throws a few cents his way for sweeping the floors. It's a kind gesture for a man who feels sorry for him but not enough to secure lodging and food. With the season changing he can't go very long without either in tandem.

The only alternative is to steal, either money or food or both but it's going to become rather apparent who the culprit is if he stays loitering around town. He's seen what people do to thieves and has no desire to reap those rewards. He keeps his ear to the ground for any work that he can convince an employer a child can do but the language barrier places an extra burden on the situations and a roadblock to success.

He catches wind of a cattle drive leaving town and imagines if he can ride a horse that should be all the skill needed. It promises not only pay, but food and accommodations along the way. It takes some doing and a few animated but broken sentences to convince the rancher to accept him but he secures the job. With the group not heading out until dawn the next day, Pavel returns to the barn he's been hiding in at night to collect the meager belongs he owns.

He carefully tucks his matryoshka doll that his mother had brought over with her from the mother land, a gift from her grandfather, a well worn copy of The Tales of Mother Goose, that his mother had been using to teach him English and his mother's locket containing a lock of her hair and a hand painted portrait. It's all he has left of his family and while he knows the locket could fetch a decent price, he doesn't believe he's in dire enough straits to sell the last piece of her yet.

The Brightside of things is he'll get to see some of this land his parents had been so desperate to make it to. The dream of bright future lay across an ocean and while his father didn't live to see it, his mother set foot on the shores of freedom. Pavel's going to make sure he does one better than that, he'll make them proud of him.

Knowing he's leaving, Pavel sets off to wander around town and practice the finer art of pick pocketing. Practice makes perfect and well honed skills can only be an asset as he makes his way alone. Anything extra he can squirrel away could come in handy down the road and since he'll be gone by dawn, he'll get away with the crime.

When he heads out the next morning, he has a pocket full of coins and a bit of breathing room before survival becomes a pressing issue again. Things are looking up.

* * *

There aren't always cattle trains to attach himself to but Pavel learns the benefits of moving from town to town. It's not as romantic an experience as the drifters he's met in saloons have made it sound but he believes one day he'll have an epic story to tell of his own. It exposes him to new job offers and an ever changing supply of targets for his thievery, a shameful but necessary skill. New towns promise fresh pockets and no one ever seems driven enough to hunt down a thief for a couple of cents when it's clear he's blown town.

It's a lonely existence, never getting attached to people and never knowing where he'll lay his head next but it beats the alternative. There's also the benefit of never having to lose someone he cares about again. When he can't find a way out of town, Pavel resorts to stowing away in places like barns and sheds but the wind is particularly harsh tonight and neither promises any real warmth. It's then that he notices the school house at the very end of town. The children are at home tucked in their warm beds, safe with their families; there should be no one at school until early the next morning.

He tentatively tries the door and finds it opens without force. There's just enough light from the big bright moon nestled in the sky for Pavel to find his way around the room. He makes a small fire in the stove, just enough to ward off the night chill but not big enough that anyone will notice the stove in use tonight or realize any wood is missing tomorrow. There's a cot and blankets in the back room but it's too far away from the warmth of the fire to be useful.

Pavel does borrow one of the blankets and an apple from the cupboard and goes back to the stove to curl up. With food in his stomach and a soft blanket, he falls asleep quickly and sleeps soundly until dawn wakes the town.

With everything put back in place, Pavel sneaks out of the school house before anyone shows up for class. He hasn't improved his language skills much in the last year but manages to get by for the most part. It has cost him jobs and caused him to be swindled a time or two and he sits on the boardwalk watching the children walk to school envious of what they will learn today.

His prospects are scarce in this town, a poor farming community that's not big enough to see any real traffic and it looks like the only way out will be by stagecoach and bought fare. He counts his coins and comes up short of being able to purchase a ticket. The weight of his mother's locket is heavy in his pocket but his hand just won't retrieve it to take it to the jeweller for appraisal and sale.

He scouts the town, memorising every path, hole, shortcut and hiding place. If he's going to be stuck in town while he steals his funds, his possible getaways have to be smooth and perfect. He watches the people and when they come and go; what time the baker starts his day and when he closes shop. Every night Chekov makes his way back to the schoolhouse, with his stolen items and food and enjoys a meal in front of the stove. In the early light of morning he replaces the wood he's used from the pile out back that the school children chop during their morning chores and removes all evidence that he was ever there.

His quick thinking and well traced routes keep him ahead of the sheriff and any other angry pursuers but the town is becoming far too familiar for his liking. He almost has enough for a ticket out but has to pace his pick pocketing out less he be caught.

* * *

It's the melodic voice just outside the schoolhouse that wakes him from a deep slumber. Pavel's eyes snap open to find the room bathed in bright light rather than the muted pallet of dawn. His heart starts to race as he realizes he's slept in and the teacher is about to discover him. Frantically he folds the blanket and tucks it away in the back but he doesn't have time to slip out the back door as the teacher enters the front. He resorts to tucking himself into the closest, door cracked open slightly so he can keep an eye out for his opportunity to flee when the teacher has her back turned.

Heart hammering in his little chest he watches as she walks in and proceeds to the bookshelf to collect a stack of books to distribute amongst the desks. He waits with bated breath as she gets closer and closer but the harsh snap of an apple core breaking under her foot causes him to flinch.

She gracefully bends over and picks up the pieces of the discarded core, a frown coming over her. "Is someone here?" she calls, looking around the room.

Pavel can't bring himself to answer, unsure the punishment for his crime.

The teacher steps forward until she's almost at the closet door. "If you're still here, I need you to come out. You don't have to be afraid. I won't harm you," she promises, sweet and kind.

There's nowhere to run from where he is but he might be able to slip past her if he comes out. He needs to take his chance while it's just the two of them. Slowly he opens the door, looking bashful and afraid. It's mostly an act, a way to garner sympathy, but part of its genuine.

"Why, hello there," she says, sitting down at one of the desks. "What's your name?"

Chekov scuffs his shoe on the floor and bites his lip.

"I can't very well call you 'hey you.' And a gentleman always introduces himself to a lady," she instructs, firm but gentle.

"Pavel, ma'am," he stutters. "Pavel Andreievich Chekov, ma'am."

The teacher stands, doing a small curtsy. "It's nice to meet you Pavel. I'm Miss Rand. I haven't seen you in class. Were you sleeping in here?"

She has a look that suggests she already knows the answer and Pavel finds he can't think of a convincing story that would offer another explanation. He gives a small nod, avoiding eye contact. People that don't treat him like the vagrant he is often look at him with pity, neither scenario changes his circumstances in life. Some people just make out better in life; under different circumstances, he might have very well been a pupil in her class.

"Your family isn't around?"

 _"_ нет, no. Mama, she ... no longer alive," he whispers, large heavy tears slowly crawling down his cheeks.

Miss Rand kneels down and wipes away Pavel's tears. She glances around the classroom and nods to herself. "Well, there's a perfectly good cot in the back that no one uses at night and it's a smidge more comfortable than I imagine the floor is. It's all yours on three conditions. First, everyone has to work for their keep; you clean up after class, sweeping, chopping wood, fetching water, scrubbing the floor."

Pavel nods eagerly. It seems like a fair trade and nothing he isn't used to.

"Second, you have to attend class. All children should go to school and work on their studies. And third, you have to work hard at those studies. There are no slackers in my classroom. Is that understood?"

Chekov starts to nod yes before a tilt of Miss Rand's head corrects his action. "Yes, ma'am."

* * *

It's a good arrangement between Miss Rand and himself. It's the first time he's really purposely stayed in one place since his mother passed and definitely the first time he's ever attended school. There's a whole world open to him now in the pages of his school books, scribbles he couldn't decipher before suddenly sharing their secrets with him. The books are far more entertaining and informative than his copy of _The Tales of Mother Goose._ Pavel quickly discovers he has a penchant for mathematics and geography.

Miss Rand is always generous enough to bring a lunch to school for Pavel. It's nothing fancy, mostly leftovers and bread with a piece of fruit when it's in season but it's daily and keeps his stomach full. He can't ask for much more. His classmates take a little while to warm up to him; language being the biggest barrier but with Miss Rand's tutelage it isn't long before it's not as big an issue anymore.

It's the most stable two years of Pavel's life and it ends all too abruptly.

"I'm getting married, Pavel," Miss Rand tells Chekov one afternoon after class. "Jack and I are going to live on his ranch and raise cattle down south."

Silence is the only reply Pavel can manage. He knows Miss Rand has been undeniably happy the last few months, this Jack fellow clearly the best thing to happen to her but the news throws his future into chaos. He knows it wasn't real but for awhile he got to pretend he was just like all the other children. He's tied his existence to Miss Rand and with her leaving he no longer has a guarantee of shelter or food, leaving him to resort to his original means of procurement. He's nearly thirteen; it's almost time for him to make it on his own anyway.

"I'll explain the situation to my replacement, you won't have to worry about a thing, sweetheart."

Pavel wants to believe her but he knows how the world works. He purchases a ticket on the stagecoach and is gone by morning. This time, as he loses everything, it's on his own terms, as much as he can make it. He's educated and his English is superior than it was a couple of years ago; it's the biggest win he's had yet. The world is full of opportunities, he thinks, he'll land on his feet somehow.

* * *

Pavel runs through the town as fast as his legs will carry him. He offers half hearted apologies to the people he bumps into as he dashes down the street, taking sharp turns and climbing over obstacles anything to try and dissuade his pursuer. The pocket watch he liberated is heavy in his hand but he won't let it go; the price it will fetch is too important to ditch in the hopes his pursuer will give up the chase. Besides, he knows every twist and turn of this town and no one can navigate the streets like him.

He dashes through the blacksmith shop and jumps the fence to the corral before stopping to take a breath. Surprisingly, he hasn't managed to shake the soldier yet. Most people give up after a minute or so, they certainly don't go to all the trouble and obstacles Pavel has scrambled through for something as trivial as a pocket watch; it's not like it's made of solid gold or anything. His reprieve, only a flight of fancy, Pavel starts running again.

"Come back here you little thief," shouts the soldier, closing ground behind Chekov. Pavel takes the next left heading back towards the main street, there's a low hanging roof that's easy to shimmy up to and from there run along the roof tops towards the next street. As determined as this Lieutenant is, he certainly can't be willing to follow him there.

Pavel gets his second wind, pulling ahead of his blond pursuer. He has a moment of panic as he spots the second soldier, a captain leaning causally against one of the support posts ahead of him. Chekov can out run one but not two. He relies on his speed, agility and knowledge of his environment to save him, using the hitching post to leverage himself up to grab the ledge of the roof. As he hauls himself up, he catches the amused smile on the Captain's face as he stands there watching Pavel's gymnastic efforts.

"Let him go," says the Captain as the Lieutenant reaches the post out of breath. Chekov slows down just enough to hear the Lieutenant's reply and ascertain if the chase that's clearly wearing on both of them is truly over.

"But he stole my watch!" protests the blond, looking at the rooftop longingly.

"He needs it more than you," counters the Captain. "Come on, I have a possible recruit I want to look at." There's an air of authority in his voice that suggests it's more than a suggestion.

With the chase over, Pavel can finally stop. Changing direction he heads towards the town jeweller to trade in his latest prize. The sooner he parts with it the sooner the evidence is gone and he has money to get himself something to eat; the unexpected chasing really working up an appetite.

* * *

Pavel's carved out a reputation as an excellent scout and tracker. The work pays pretty good when bounty hunters and travellers can get past his youth and hire him. At fifteen it's not that they don't see him as an adult now but can't imagine him having the experience that has earned his reputation. In the intern between jobs he sticks to pick pocketing, it's what he's good at and it keeps his skills sharp.

It's spring time and the ground is soft and muddy, making traction a little precarious in places. Pavel leans against the side of the general store and listens to the clopping of the stagecoach horses. His pursuers are getting closer but he has a sure fire way to ditch them before they grab him for stealing their pay. He counts down the seconds for the horses to close the distance before dashing out in front of the stagecoach. The men giving chase make to follow but the mud makes it difficult to stop before sliding into the horses startling them and causing a fuss.

A warm smile spreads across Pavel's face as the sounds of confusion mean his victims are tied up and unable to follow. He's already dreaming about how he's going to spend the money as he reaches the post. A hand wraps tightly around his wrist halting his ability to make the climb.

"I've seen this trick before," says the owner of the hand as he pulls Pavel away from the post.

"Nyet, let go," snaps Pavel. He struggles to break free but the grip doesn't loosen and he can hear the men whom he liberated the money from gaining on him. Nothing good is going to happen if they do catch up; Pavel likes his hands attached to him, thank you very much. This new predicament isn't painting any glorious pictures either.

It's been a year but Pavel hasn't forgotten the face of the captain that let him escape with the Lieutenant's watch. He swallows hard as the captain pushes him against the wall and reaches into each of his pockets, searching until he comes up with the roll of dollar bills.

The captain looks at Pavel's ill-gotten gains and shakes his head, almost like he's disappointed. His grip is firm but not cruel, still Chekov can't seem to break away as he struggles to pull free; the owners of the cash coming up to the pair.

"Here," says the captain, tossing the roll to the two men without taking his eyes off of Pavel.

"Little thief! I'll teach you to steel from me," yells one of the men raising his fist to drive it hard at Pavel's head.

Pavel clenches his eyes shut and braces himself for the blow but it doesn't come.

"He's not your problem anymore," warns the captain, "he's mine."

"But," starts the other man.

"No but. Walk away before we have a problem." The captain turns his hip slightly so the sun casts a glint off of his side arm. Looking disappointed, the men walk away mumbling threats of what Pavel can expect as soon as his bodyguard disappears.

Chekov may have avoided a beating for the moment, but he has a feeling he's just gone from the fire into the frying pan.

"Let's go get a drink, son," says the captain and it's anything but a request as he drags Pavel along by the arm.

They take a seat at a table in the back and the captain refuses to let the bartender serve Chekov anything with alcohol. They sit there in awkward silence until the bartender brings their drinks. Pavel isn't going to start, he isn't going to be the one to provide the rope to hang him.

"I think there are better uses for your talents than petty theft, don't you?" asks the captain.

Pavel shrugs his shoulder. There are lots of things he could be doing but not everyone has the opportunities to be more than they are. He thinks he's done pretty well with what he's been given.

"What's your name, son?" When Pavel doesn't answer, the captain adds, "You do have a name don't you?

Chekov bites his lip and weighs his options. "It's Chekov, Pavel Andreievich."

"Well, Chekov, Pavel Andreievich, I'm Captain Christopher Pike and I've heard tales of an amazing scout out this way, young, but amazing. I was thinking of offering him a job to work for me. It means traveling with the army but that also includes shelter and daily meals. It means not having to steal anymore, which would be expressly forbidden. You wouldn't know where I could find him?"

There's a sincerity in Pike's eyes that makes Pavel want to trust him. It's certainly the best offer he's gotten in a long while and one that could potentially have a future. The pros and cons pile up in his head but maybe it's time for a change, a chance to see the sun from another angle. "I will be your scout, Captain." Worst case scenario, he can always slip away during the night as the army travels between towns.

* * *

Pavel technically isn't in the army, still too young and Pike won't lie about his age, but he follows the same rules and procedures. It also means he gets to partake in the same shenanigans as the other men. Lieutenant Kirk is responsible for most of the fun activities, which usually involve Mr Scott. Scotty is full of information and always keen to share, which works great for Pavel, who soaks up everything like a sponge. Between the two officers, they teach Pavel all the essential skills, both appropriate and inappropriate, much to Pikes chagrin. He finds himself hooked on all of Scotty's tales as they sit around the campfire at night and stands in ruptured attention on lazy afternoons as Kirk teaches him how to shoot.

There's something about the feeling of cool steel resting in his hand and the explosive power it threatens to unleash at his bidding that's intoxicating. It's like the thrill and rush that comes from picking someone's pocket. Jim shows him how to properly take care of his weapon and often blesses him with the opportunity to use one of Kirk's personal guns.

"The secret is to treat her like a lady," says Jim as he fondly strokes his hand up and down the barrel of his prized possession with a polishing rag. "She's gonna save your life one day, so you gotta give her love and attention."

Chekov nods his head, eyes glued to the true piece of artwork in Kirk's hand. Jim's guns all have stories that are so enormous and enamouring they rival any adventure book ever written. The fact that he even puts any of these guns in Pavel's hands for practice is like being touched by god.

As impressive as his new friends are, Pike insists Pavel's scouting and tracking are equally so. They pass out of the area Chekov has come to know intimately and he begins to wonder if his usefulness has finally found and end. A nervous excitement runs through him every morning as he scouts ahead of the men through new lands. He hasn't failed yet and that can only mean good things in the future. With any luck, when next year rolls around, Pike will finally let him enlist and he can officially be part of the army and on his way to being an officer.

* * *

Not being an officer yet has its draw backs as Pike selects Kirk to go on a peacekeeping mission to participate and learn during the Vulcan negotiations and he takes Scotty with him.

"Here," says Kirk handing his colt over to Chekov. "You need to keep practicing while we're gone if you ever hope to convince Pike to let you join and I need someone to take care of it while I'm tied up in peace talks."

Pavel reaches out to take the gun, stunned into silence by both the offer and the trust the Lieutenant is placing in him. This is the first gun Kirk ever acquired for himself and the one he plans to use to kill the man that murdered his father. This is the trusted sidearm of the late Sheriff George Kirk. Jim never lets it out of his sight and while it's not army issue, Pike lets him keep it. The fact that Kirk feels safer leaving it with Pavel as opposed to hiding it among his things as he reports to a new commanding officer for awhile gives him a sense of belonging he hasn't felt since Miss Rand.

"Keep her safe for me, kid. I'll be coming back for that," Kirk stays sternly.

Chekov pulls it tight to his chest like it's the most precious object in the universe. "Nothing will happen to it," he swears. He'll look after this treasure with his life.

* * *

Pavel not being an officer means he has to stay behind which isn't the worst thing in the world but camp is certainly quiet with Kirk and Scotty gone. While his youthfulness never bothered the two officers, not all the men feel obligated to continue to socialize with him now that they're gone. It also means Kirk's silent protection has disappeared without his presence.

For the most part it's shoving and tripping that can be attributed to clumsiness on the other men's parts to any officer paying attention and isolation in group settings. Being alone never bothered Pavel before but now it feels worse. His brief taste of being part of the group has made suddenly not feel like being lost as sea and unable to catch the attention of a ship passing by. Still, when Captain Pike asks him if everything is alright, he puts on his usual carefree smile and assures him things are just fine. He'll work it out; Pike's given him a place he can't bother the man with petty things like seeking advice on how to fit in with people he has nothing in common with.

It's after breakfast when Chekov comes bounding back to one of the sleeping tents to start his morning routine of caring for Jim's gun when he finds a group of men standing around his cot. He braces himself for the usual taunting and antics but feels a fire ignite when he sees what's in Sergeant Hastings's hand.

"What's a guttersnipe like ya doing witt a colt this perdy?" snarls Hastings.

Pavel just glares. Hastings isn't a fan of Kirk's and he certainly isn't a fan of Pavel's. Everyone knows who the proper owner of the gun is and there isn't anything Chekov can say that's going to dissuade these men from their intentions to make him miserable but he's not going to take this lying down. He tilts his head towards the gun and says, "Dat is not yours."

"You stole it. We all know you're a thief, but to steal from the one person that's bin shielding ya is a level of disrespect even we can't stomach." Hastings leads the charge towards Pavel, his lackeys following behind like a pack of dogs swarming a wounded rabbit.

He struggles but soon finds strong rough hands wrapped tightly around his arms as they drag him towards his cot. Hastings's gut rumbles as he laughs to himself and proceeds to dump Chekov's satchel out on the cot. The loose change from late night Kirk orchestrated card games is quickly snatched up and pocketed. Most of his things are army issued except for the wooden set of dolls, story book and locket. The locket catches Hastings eye. It's the only thing of actual value besides Kirk's gun in Pavel's possession.

Chevkov snarls as Hastings's meaty hand runs over the intricate design of the locket. "For payment of all the good honest folks ya stole from before," he says as he opens the locket. "Well aint she a beaut," he coos with a lustful glint in his eye before showing off the delicate portrait within to the perverted eyes of his followers. "That'll keep me warm on many a cold night, I reckon."

Chekov sees white. An animalistic cry rips from his throat as he tears and pulls against the men holding him enough that he breaks free of their grasp. He's on Hastings in a flash, fighting like a cornered animal.

Pavel's small and fast but these men are well trained and determined. There's also too many for him to dodge and evade for long. A solid punch to the face knocks him off balance and stumbling out the door of the tent. The bright sunlight doesn't help his swimming vision as he tries to take in his surroundings and dodge the next hit. Pain explodes in his back as Hastings drives his meaty fist hard into Chekov's kidney causing his knees to buckle and the ground rush up to meet him.

He knows how this ends and it's with his blood painting the dirt. Kirk's gun will be gone and his mother's blessed memory will belong to a vile man who plays at being a war hero but he can't find the coordination to find his feet again.

There's a loud clank and suddenly Hastings is lying face down in the dirt beside Pavel. The man's unconscious, a goofy grin carved into his face despite suddenly finding himself in the same situation as his former prey. Chekov rolls over onto his back and squints to block out the sun. There's a tall figure standing over him and between Hastings's gang wielding a frying pan. No one seems to want to confront the cooking implement carrying man, instead the men stand there like spooked cattle.

"Take your friend and get out of here," commands Pavel's saviour, still brandishing the cast iron like a gun.

The men scoop up Hastings and begin to stagger away as the man offers a hand to get Chekov to his feet and claim Kirk's discarded gun.

"My locket," slurs Chekov, the world tilting dangerously as he achieves something resembling vertical. "They have my mother's locket."

The man cocks Kirk's gun and points it at the group of men trying to engage in a tactical retreat. "You heard him. You have his mother's locket. I suggest you give it back to my friend."

"Awe Sulu, we didn't mean nothing by it," offers one of the lackeys as he pries the locket out of Hastings's hand and passes it over.

Sulu doesn't say anything, just keeps the weapon steady until the locket is safely back in Chekov's hand and the men have disbanded to other corners of the camp. He turns to Chekov and passes the gun back to him. "You should take better care of that. Kirk is pretty particular about it."

Pavel takes the gun and stares at it for a moment. He's never really considered exactly what it would take to pull the trigger on someone else before. When push came to shove he fought back with tooth and claw and thinks he might have what it takes to pull the trigger against someone he knows if so ordered. He knows that's what Pike and even Kirk in his own way have been trying to protect him against, but he's not that innocent kid anymore even if no one else can see it.

Sulu walks silently back to the fire and perches on his stump to tend to his stew. Pavel's never had direct dealings with the camp cook before but now he owes him a debt. Sulu is known to the men for mostly his cooing skills but there have been times Pike has used Sulu to go on missions and there seems to be a silent respect for the quiet mysticism Sulu exudes while keeping mostly to himself. Kirk and Scotty seem to get along with him and they both seem to be a decent judge of character. Chekov saunters over to the fire and sits down next to his saviour. Neither says a word to break the silence but the quiet isn't uncomfortable.

* * *

Chekov finds himself giving a hand to the camp cook. Their differences separate them from the rest of the men but don't have any bearing on their forming friendship. Sulu is like the big brother Pavel never had and the pair become thick as thieves before spring gives into summer.

Sulu fills the space left by Scotty and Kirk's absence. He even takes over Pavel's gun training and has his own fair share interesting tales to spin. He even demonstrates his unique touch with animals, giving Pavel tricks and tips to have better control over his horse. Sulu's trying to teach him the finer points of making stew when the serene atmosphere of camp is disrupted by a rider racing into their midst. The rider follows Pike into his private tent and everyone stands around trying in vain to eavesdrop on the news.

"That can't be good," mutters Sulu as he stirs the pot over the fire.

Chekov thinks he must be a good poker player because Sulu's face never gives anything away. The air is tense and reeks of death though no blood has been spilled on this tranquil ground. The anticipation is like ants crawling over his skin and he can't help but fidget as he tries to stay seated.

The rider leaves and all eyes on camp suddenly become enamoured with the dirt as he passes back to his steed and takes off out towards the horizon. Pike stands at the entrance to his tent looking contemplative and burdened like the world is solely his responsibility from this point forward. His gaze sweeps the camp until he stops to look pointedly at Sulu and Chekov. His expression becomes pinched but doesn't utter a word as he turns back into his tent.

"That's really not good," mutters Sulu.

* * *

It's two days before they get any answers but by then the camp is a muck with wild accusations and conjecture. It isn't clarification Pike offers rather orders, orders that contradict the last ones issued and don't seem in any way beneficial to their original standing. They begin the long journey to Fort Tantalus, part of the small town of Talos, at a hard grueling pace dictated by Pike's determination to follow this course.

The fort is a warzone when they finally march in. Destruction has touched every inch and the people look as though they're still coming to terms with what happened. Chekov swallows hard as he thinks about his friends being in the middle of this when they were supposed to be involved in peace talks. The people are grateful they arrive though; extra hands to start to piece together the fort and town and restore it to something recognizable.

Chekov spends most of the first few days lending a hand alongside Sulu who manages to watch the captain and other officers without blatantly doing so. Pike hasn't said anything about why they suddenly came here or what's going on or the whereabouts of Kirk and Scotty. Kirk's fate is learned from the gossip of disgruntled soldiers and traumatized settlers.

"It can't be true can it?" asks Pavel. He has a hard time imagining Jim leading an uprising against his own troops or ransacking a town just because he can. That's not the person he knows and it isn't the type of person Pike surrounds himself with.

Sulu rolls his eyes. "Do you really have to ask?"

Chekov shakes his head no. What he knows to be true and what people are saying around the fort are two different things and he fears that those that know Kirk are greatly outnumbered by those that believe the worst of him. Pavel was just becoming comfortable with this makeshift family and isn't looking forward to yet another loss in his life. The army is calling for Jim's head and though Pike seems to have a lot of influence, Chekov secretly worries that it won't be enough this time.

Pike storms out of the fort commander's office looking every inch pissed off. Sulu is braver than Chekov, asking, "Is there any news?"

Pike stops by his two soldiers, deflating slightly. "Kirk's wanted for treason. When captured, he's to be brought before a military court and hung. They seem unwilling to entertain any alternate views about what happened with the Vulcans."

"Is there anything we can do to help him?" questions Chekov. There's a shortage of good people in this world, it would be a shame to kill one needlessly.

"The army's not going to help Jim and they're certainly not going to let me help him by finding the truth." Pike looks forlorn and a little lost, like this is the fork in the road and he only has one chance to choose a path and forever live with the consequences. "So I'm going to have to help Jim without army approval."

Sulu stands up tall and proud. "You can count me in, Sir."

"I can't ask you to do that Sulu. You have a promising career here, you shouldn't throw that away," counters Chris.

"With all due respect, Sir, that's bullshit. The only reason I'm here is because of you and the only one that gives me a fair shot is Kirk. He'd do it for anyone else, so it's the least I can do," proclaims Sulu.

Pavel chews on his bottom lip. He hasn't had a home like this since the schoolhouse with Ms Rand and the prospect of losing it is terrifying. The army is just a home and a home is meaningless without a family. Plus he has Jim's gun and it sounds like he's going to need it now more than ever. He pulls out the gun from his coat pocket and admires it as the sun glistens off the well polished metal. It's the same sun that's been shining on him his whole life but suddenly instead of a life of tragedy he feels like he has a useful purpose; a chance to repay the kindness he's been shown in recent years. "I must give this back to Lieutenant Kirk personally," he declares, throwing his lot in with Pike and Sulu.

* * *

 ** _Thank you to everyone who read this story and/or commented, you're the best._**

 **Next story: Pike's _More Stories than the Devil has Sinners_**


	8. Pike pt 1

**More Stories than the Devil has Sinners**

Christopher Parnell Pike, son of a blacksmith, is born of fire and iron. His father is strong, unyielding iron like the metal he and his family have dedicated their souls to molding and shaping, while his mother is a retired school teacher with a passion and soul fiery enough to warm and shape his father's heart. The fourth of what will be eight children, Chris is the oldest by typical frontier tragedy by the time he's six. His whole life is laid out before him: hone his skills as a blacksmith, marry a good woman, settle down and ensure future strapping boys to continue the family legacy. It's a good life, an honest life, and Chris can find no fault in it. He's raised in an ordinary frontier town in an unremarkable part of the territory. Becoming his parents seems like a reasonable and safe trajectory.

He learns to forge metal almost the same time he can walk and spends his days outside of school, helping his father in the shop. The only taste of the wild frontier that looms just over the hills in the distance that he gets is in the stories travellers through town see fit to share with a young hand as they wait for their horses to be re-shoed. The hills, he decides, keep his perfectly mundane future pristine and untainted from a land that's painted with blood, violence and uncertainty. His parents fell in love back East in the hustle and bustle of the big cities on the coast and haven't regretted settling here. He will be happy here too.

At eight years old the first objection to his carefully foretold existence literally falls out of the sky and lands on him. The force and weight sends him tumbling to the ground and he has to fight to crawl out from whatever has descended from upon high. When he finally gets to his feet and dusts the dirt off his new trousers, which his mother will tan his hide for getting dirty already, he realizes it's not a something that almost crushed him but a someone. A someone with blond hair and blue eyes that's sitting on the ground with a bemused smirk on his face.

As if breaking someone's fall wasn't irritating enough the complete lack of an apology while the boy laughs is. His mother isn't going to believe that some boy fell from above as an excuse to spare him from the fallout of ruining his clothes. "What's so funny?" demands Chris.

The boy gets to his feet. "Not funny... fun. That was fun," he says looking up at the tall tree with awe and desire, before moving towards the base and reaching for a sturdy branch.

Chris follows his line of sight up the impressively high tree that once was probably the crown jewel of the forest but like everything has now succumb to age and rot and is at the mercy of the next strong wind that decides to flex its muscles. "Why would you climb a tree you'd probably fall out of?" he asks as the boy begins to pull himself up to the next branch. Really, it's not a probable scenario at this point; it already happened once and is probably a case of lightening striking twice.

"Because it's there," says the boy like it's the most obvious answer in the universe.

Chris has never thought about trees existing for the sole purpose of his climbing them. Fear of the fall has always kept his feet firmly on the ground, like the hills in the distance keeping him in town and on track to be the town blacksmith when he grows up. He's never had any desire to see what's at the top. "You could get hurt," reminds Chris, and really at this point, he could get hurt if the tree bows to gravity and dumps the boy again.

"Then it's rather fortuitous that I landed on you the first time," calls the boy over his shoulder as he continues on his climb undeterred. "Besides, trees are meant to be climbed, lakes swam and mountains traversed. And I intend to do them all."

Chris crosses his arms and frowns. Nothing could possibly be worth all that trouble; could it? The boy says it with such conviction that it seems like heaven can only be found at the tops of trees and mountains and the middle of lakes where the veil between life and death is the thinnest. It's the complete opposite of what his parents talk about around the dinner table as they give thanks for the simple things, the safe things in their lives.

"Are you coming?" calls the boy. "The view is spectacular."

Chris shakes his head. It's a foolhardy idea that he doesn't need to be a part of. Besides, how would he explain a broken arm on top of ruining his new clothes? The view is perfectly fine from down here. "Fools rush in where angels fear to tread," he calls after the boy.

"Nothing ventured, nothing gained," comes the reply, and Chris steps back startled as the boy's face appears by his own as he swings from a low hanging branch by his legs. He looks at Chris seriously. "You're not chicken are you?"

Like some sort of curse, the taunt seems to remove what little sense Chris was blessed with as he throws good judgement to wind and grabs the first branch within reach. He maybe a lot of things but no one calls him chicken and certainly not some kid he's never met before the blond oaf came tumbling out of the tree he's climbing again.

Chris is at the top before realization hits him and common sense reasserts itself, but by then it's too late; the view steals him breath away. He can see for forever in all directions and what lies beyond the hills that have defined his world doesn't look so scary from up there.

"I told you," says the boy before offering his hand. "George Kirk."

Chris takes his hand and gives it a firm shake. "Christopher Pike."

* * *

George Kirk is a menace, or so Chris's mother reminds him constantly. But she must be able to see through the shenanigans and bravado to George's pristine soul because she never tells Chris he can't be friends with George, no matter what the pair get into. Chris thinks it's mostly the devil may care smile, heart of gold and those baby blues that make people fail to see the pointy horns under Kirk's halo. Kirk's clout seems to extend to Chris too by virtue of association not that Chris isn't the honest, hard working, god fearing boy his parents raised him to be. Either way, they're thick as thieves; an inseparable duo the likes of Riverside has ever seen.

George is a dreamer and it's Chris's job to keep both their feet on the ground. The job becomes infinitely more difficult the older they get, but Chris always manages to temper George's dangerous impulses into something that won't get them killed outright. George becomes more insistent as they get closer to stepping out on their own in the world, while Chris still enjoys the safety of his parent's dream. Beyond the hills looks interesting but he's choosing the life of a blacksmith now instead of it being the only option. Trust George to turn that notion on its head at the first opportunity.

Their cozy little hamlet isn't immune to what is shaping the world beyond the hills. War is on the horizon. The savages that once inhabited the lands have decided to push back against the peaceful settlers, spilling blood across the earth. Eventually the army comes calling with its enticing sales pitch that claims several young men in Riverside.

Chris has to admit the sentiment isn't lost on him but it isn't the future that's been plan for him so he only half listens when George drags him along to listen to the recruiter dangle the carrot of adventure and heroism before them. It's a noble cause, just not one Chris wants to be entangled with.

They grab a drink at the saloon after. Chris would be lying if said the novelty of being old enough to hang out in the saloon and drink wasn't still exciting. "So I found out the blond is Masters's niece. She's been giving him a hand around the store and we got to talking. I think I'll ask if I can escort her to the dance on Friday," Chris rattles on.

"You should do that," breaths George without feeling.

Chris looks up from his glass to realize George has been staring at the soldiers sitting around the table in the back as opposed to listening to his plans to woo the blond angel with the perfect smile that captured his heart months ago.

"I think I'm going to join," declares George. His thumb taps nervously against his glass like it's a do or die moment.

"What? The army?" asks Chris somewhat surprised. "You got a death wish or something?"

George laughs. "I think I could make a difference."

Chris retorts, "You could also make an excellent pin cushion for some savage's arrows." It's definitely the most hazardous idea George has cooked up yet. There's an endless barrage of dangers attached with this notion that Chris couldn't even hope to think of let alone protect his friend from.

"We should do it," insists George. It's the ultimate adventure waiting for them and they'd be perfect for it; his fearlessness tempered by Chris's intellect, they'll be unstoppable.

"Now there's a we?" Chris certainly doesn't have any designs on joining the army. And he doesn't remember agreeing to do something this reckless.

"Nothing happens in this town. This is our chance to get out and see the world. Make a difference," says George with inspiration in his eyes like he can see the future paved in gold before him.

Chris is almost a little envious of that conviction, but the truth is, this whole land is settled with the broken dreams of people who thought there was something brighter and better out there. "Nothing out there that you don't already have here. Mr Wilkenson says you can have the lead hand job anytime you want. And he pays enough that you'll have enough to buy your own spread in no time. I could even see if Masters has another niece," tries Chris. There's safety in this town and he owes it to his friend to convince him to stay before he does something he'll regret.

George deflates a little. "Maybe you're right."

Chris takes another sip of his drink. "Of course I'm right. A man doesn't need to go out and court death."

"You should go ask that girl to the dance," insists George, with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Now?"

"The dance is a day away. You don't want someone else sweeping her off her feet, now do you?"

Chris can't help the smile that breaks out on his face. "I'll do it then," he declares getting to his feet. It's a major step towards his future happiness. George claps him on the shoulder with a "that's great Chris," and with crisis averted, Pike heads from the saloon to the general store to ask the fair maiden for the privilege of her company Friday night. Things are coming together for both of them.

The dance is a success, his date seems as infatuated with Chris as he is with her and it's not hard to push the nagging sensation at George's absence from his mind as he escorts her home on their moonlit walk along the quiet banks of the river.

His happiness is interrupted the next morning as his mother hands him a letter. He gets through about half of it before crumpling it into a ball and dropping it on the ground. He can't stomach to read George's apologies for leaving and half hearted reassurances that everything will be alright. The damn idiot up and joined the army on his quest for adventure. Anger runs through Chris on the heels of betrayal and fear. The pair have been inseparable since eight years old and now George has just taken off without him. Not that Chris wanted to go but the sting of betrayal lives on the edge of being so easy to leave behind. Chris is the voice of reason that's kept George's foolhardy and dangerous ideas in check and without him, just how long is George going to survive?

* * *

George sends letters whenever he can and it ease some of Chris's tension getting monthly confirmation that George hasn't done something monumentally stupid. Between letters he has his relationship to distract him and taking on a large portion of the work for his father. Everything is coming together how he pictured it. He's found the girl he's going to spend the rest of his life with and if George would just get home from playing hero unharmed, everything would be perfect.

The tide of war turns quite quickly. It isn't long before a beaten and worn regiment is marching on town to seek refuge while they tend to their wounded and get supplies. Chris puts in long hours re-shoeing their horse and listens to their stories while they wait for him to finish. Hearing George's regiment come up sends a spike of fear through his soul. He has to interrogate seven soldiers to get the whole story that leaves him shaken.

He finds the highest ranking officer he can and demands answers. No one can say for certain if George is alive or not, just that those that did survive the engagement were taken captive and the Romulans are not known for letting prisoners go. The Captain has no intention of rescuing the prisoners because the likelihood is they'll be dead before reinforcements can come and give the regiment favorable odds.

* * *

"So, what? You're going to join, Chris?"

Pike doesn't stop packing. He has no intention of joining but someone has to do something. "I just can't leave him there Nona. Someone has to do something."

She puts her hand over his to still his movements. "And that someone has to be you?" she asks.

This is exactly what he tried to warn George about but he can't stand by and do nothing while George's life is on the line. "I'm the only one that's even remotely been able to keep his feet on the ground. And it looks like I'm the only one that's dead set on seeing him come home."

He's not a soldier but he does have an idea that the Captain seems to think they have a chance of pulling off. It's one job, to save his friend. He'll be there and back before anyone notices he's left. It's just a small detour in his perfect plan; he'll save George's ass and get back on track. He looks Nona in the eye and asks, "You'll wait for me?"

He's going to marry that girl if she'll have him, but he has no delusion that things can change in the time he's gone.

She hugs him tightly and whispers, "I love you," in his ear.

They make love that night and in the morning Chris sets off with a lock of her hair and best memory of his life.

* * *

Thankfully George is alive and even more mercifully Pike's rescue plan works. Those are the only things that go right. After the rescue they get pinned down in a siege for three weeks until the nearest regiment comes with enough firepower and men to run the Romulans off. Chris has every intention of dragging George back home to Riverside, with one compelling speech but falls victim to George's campaign to stay. He doesn't know when he gets swept up in the rush of saving lives or the thrill of adventure but when it comes time to leave, Chris finds himself signing up. He justifies it to himself when he looks in the mirror as George needing someone to look after his ass but like the tree, once he got a taste of the view, it was hard to not seek it out on his own.

Pike is surprisingly good at being a soldier and all of his commanding officers are impressed with his ingenuity and leadership. Along with Kirk they climb the ranks quickly and have a reputation as being unstoppable. As good as Chris is, George is brilliant, taking to it like a duck to water. His friend shines here in a way he never did back home.

Pike keeps in touch with Nona but as things get busy the letters get spaced further and further apart. When she has to leave Riverside to take her mother south to help with her tuberculosis she tells Chris to come find her when the war is done and he can stay in one place. The thought of one day marrying the blond firecracker is the only thing that drives Chris to keep going when things get bad and the thing he dreams about on peaceful nights.

They get three successful years boasting the fewest casualties and most victories before someone gets a lucky shot and Chris has to save George again. He manages to drag George off the battle field but the surgeon insists it will take months for George's arm to heal enough for him to fight again. George is sullen at the news but Chris is just thankful he's alive.

At Chris's insistence, George heads home to recover. It's a much needed break that his friend deserves. They send letters, Pike's about the men and completed missions and George complaining about the monotony of Riverside life until he meets a girl that captures his interest. Soon, all of George's letters revolve around love and Chris finds he doesn't need George to say it but he isn't coming back to the army. Pike's happy for his friend but misses him dearly. Unlike last time George left without Chris, Chris doesn't feel like he's been left behind. He love what he does and the thought of going back home to be a blacksmith is daunting. There won't always be wars to fight so he's going to soak up as much of this as he can while he can.

It's ironic, when Pike does get the letter of George's intention to marry that it's Pike out on the adventure and Kirk settling down to have a family.

* * *

It isn't great news that brings Lieutenant Pike back to Riverside. The army has agreed to give him a month to tend to family business in the wake of his father's death. While it's a solemn occasion, it will give Chris the chance to meet the woman that's tamed George Kirk.

George comes to the funeral without his beau citing her feeling faint the last couple of days and deciding it was better for her to stay home than ride into town for services. Chris doesn't mind; it gives him a chance to listen to George talk about her as they ride out to his homestead. All the talk about a double wedding when Chris goes and retrieves his love of his life and the future in Riverside warms Pike's heart. He doesn't think she's going to live up to the pedestal George has put her on.

They enter the home to the delicious smell of dinner floating in the air. It takes George seven steps to get from the door to the kitchen to wrap his arms around his future wife; every inch the loving and devoted couple. "Chris, I'd like you to meet Winona," introduces George.

Chris's heart comes to a stop as the blond turns around. He knows for a fact that Winona exceeds the pedestal George has placed her on because he fell hard and fast for her too. He stands there, unable to move. Fortunately before George can notice anything amiss, the cattle outside start making a fuss and George excuses himself to check it out and see if the troublesome coyote is back.

It's just him and Winona in the kitchen and the silence stretches on forever. Finally his lips connect with the message his brain is sending and he mutters, "Nona?" He knows it's her, having memorized every inch of her face every time they were together. He's desperately hoping for some mistake.

"Chris," she echoes, just as horrified. "You're George's best friend?"

She looks equal parts broken and torn and he can emphasis with that. What they had was love, true and hot passion, or so he had believed. "I thought you were going to wait?" he says dumbly, because when he pictured seeing the girl of his dreams again it wasn't in his best friend's house as his George's future wife. His world is crashing down around him and he's looking for Winona to say something that's going to save him.

Winona looks at the door panicked. In all their correspondence and conversations none of them connected Nona as Winona especially since she was supposed to have left Riverside to see to her mother. And Chris and George are common enough names that she never connected them either. There are four other people named Chris living in Riverside at this very moment. "You can't tell him," bursts out of her mouth.

She fell hard for Chris but came to the realization that she would be second to the army and waiting for forever had little appeal. Letting go was the hardest thing she had to do and there's a part of her that wants to run over and embrace Chris, picking up where they left off but George is a good man. And she loves him, she really does. George is a good decent man and if either one says anything they both know he'll gladly step out of the way, because Kirk is decent and selfless like that and that's what swept Winona off her feet in the first place. Things are more complicated than that.

Chris fights to hold back the tears stinging his eyes. For the first time in his life, he's prepared to fight George for something if he gets the tiniest inclination he might win. "Do you love him?" he asks, unsure what answer he hopes to get.

A small smile shapes Winona's lips. "I do."

He can recognize love when he sees it. He wore the same stupid smile on his face when he told George he was thinking about asking her to the fall dance. "More than you ever loved me?" The world hinges on the next few words.

"It's more complicated than that."

Chris is moving before he can think better of it, wrapping his arms around Nona and engaging in a passionate kiss that could burn the house down. She kisses back but pulls away after a moment.

"We can't," says Winona, desperate and aching. She's dreamed of this moment every day her and Chris were apart but all that disappeared when a wounded soldier accidently knocked over a display in her uncle's store and insisted, even though it must have hurt like hell that he clean up the mess and not her.

"You have two men who asked for your hand in marriage. It's just a question of who you love more. Tell me it's me and I'll leave the army. We'll buy a piece of land and have a whole litter of children running around, just like you wanted." Chris has never meant anything more in his life.

A single tear rolls down Winona's cheek. "I'm pregnant."

The two simple words threaten to topple mountains. Chris has lost the battle for Winona's affection when he didn't even know the war was taking place.

"I'm going to marry George and we're going to be happy. We are happy. We're in love and starting a family."

She sounds apologetic and says everything he'd want from the woman marrying his best friend but he doesn't actually hear much of what she says beyond choosing George over him; the dying shriek of his heart is drowning out all sound.

"Isn't she a dream?" asks George as he comes back inside, looking like a love sick fool.

"The greatest dream a man can dream," agrees Chris as they sit down to dinner.

Pike cuts his trip short and heads back to his regiment. His history with Nona, rather Winona, is the biggest secret he's ever kept from George and while he desperately wants to tell someone his tale of woe, he isn't going to destroy his friend's happiness for something that will never be. He avoids home now. It's one thing to wish Winona and George happiness, it's another to have it in his face.

They exchange letters constantly. It isn't long before Chris receives the news that George is the proud father of George Samuel Kirk or Sam of which they hope Chris will be the godfather. He accepts, because it's an honor and keep his bitterness that it should be his life, buried. Soon the Kirk's are announcing the arrival of James Tiberius Kirk and Chris has two god sons. They are the most perfect children in the world and while they can't be his, Chris decides he's happy enough being their god father.

The perfect family is heading to Federation City where George is going to be deputy. Winona seems proud, boasting it won't be long before George makes sheriff.

Chris doesn't think anything of it when the mail rider hands him a neatly folded letter with Winona's script across the front. George often dictates his letter to Winona, especially if it's news concerning both of them. The letters make him smile; no doubt the announcement of the impending arrival of another mini George on the horizon. Kirk always wanted a litter of kids underfoot to make up for the small family he grew up in.

Opening the letter, his smile fades and it slips from his fingers, falling to the dirt like a feather on a gentle breeze.

* * *

It's two weeks before things calm down enough that his superior can give him leave.

* * *

Riding down the long dirt trail to the Kirk homestead, Chris can't help but notice it looks exactly the same. It's a sobering thought that one of the greatest lights in this universe can be snuffed out and yet the world appears untarnished for its loss. The moment he steps into the house Winona wraps her arms around him like she'll never let go, and he can't help but think the last time he was held that tightly was by her in better circumstances. While Winona tries to hide her anguish, it's written clearly on the faces of her children. They're lost and broken but perhaps none more than young James whose blue eyes are so sharp they're like glass shards cutting into Chris's soul.

He has to piece the details together from talking with people in town and every new fact he learns is a knife in his heart. Chris not only wasn't there to save his friend but he's spectacularly failed at keeping his godchildren safe from the evils of the world. Sam was spared witnessing George's final moments but James had a front row seat for every agonizing minute.

At the funeral, Jim grabs a hold of Chris's hand and refuses to let go for two whole days. Chris spends most of that time wiping away tears and checking shadows for bandits. He manages to get them packed up and escorts them on the wagon ride to Riverside. None of them look remorseful at leaving Federation City.

Winona's a ghost, rarely having enough energy to get out of bed. Sam is mostly angry; at his father for dying or the world for letting him die, it's hard to tell but he spends most of his time in the loft in the barn. James just seems lost; his hero is gone and the other pieces of his life have fallen away, trapped in their own despair.

Jim follows him around like a lost duck as Chris spends the day doing all the chores that make the farm run. It's the picture of heaven but it's false. This isn't his home and these aren't his sons. He tries to keep that in perspective as makes arrangements to hire trustworthy farmhands to run things when he eventually goes back to the army. There's far too much here for Winona to manage on her own and raise two young boys. She's going to need help since she's decided to leave the violence of Federation City behind them and start again on the Kirk family homestead in Riverside. At least here, Chris knows they'll be safe.

Every day that passes the notion of leaving gets harder and harder. Sam and Jim are so young and there's so much to teach them if they're going to grow up and be the men George would have shaped them into. Every night Chris spends his time holding Winona as she cries her heart out. She refuses to get out of bed and though the boys don't know it, she refuses to see them. Chris is starting to fear that Nero's bullet killed both George and Winona at the same time. He can't leave this once perfect family in shambles and uses that to justify staying another day and another.

He's showing Jim how to fix a broken fence post one afternoon, anything to keep the kid busy so he doesn't drown in despair, when the sunlight catches him just right and Chris swears he's looking at George when they were boys. He's paying more attention to Jim's face than the hammer he should be teaching the boy to wield when it slips and crashes into Pike's hand, hard. A string of expletives rushes out of his mouth as he covers his hand to try and stop the bleeding. Jim panics and bolts before Chris can pull himself together enough to stop him.

Chris heads back to the farm house to get his hand bandaged and hopes the kid ran home. Jim's not there but Winona is. It's the first time she's come out of her room since they arrived and she doesn't hesitate to use her gentle touch to patch Chris up.

"I don't know what to do without him," she whispers as she tied the bandage ends together. "He was my whole world and now he's gone."

Chris holds her hands tightly and looks her straight in the eye. "You're going to be alright," he assures her, because if it's the last thing he does, he's going to make sure they are.

Jim still isn't home by dinner and Chris sets out to find the boy. It wasn't his intention to scare him but both kids are so fragile since coming to Riverside it doesn't take much to spook either. He finds Jim sitting along the banks of George's old fishing hole. "Are you going to stay out here all night? It gets pretty cold."

Jim goes ramrod straight and stares at Chris like a spooked dear. His bottom lip wobbles and Chris closes the distance in three strides, wrapping the small boy in his arms. "It's okay."

"But your hand," he sobs.

"Is fine. It will be good as new in a couple of days. No harm done."

"Really?" asks Jim, squirming so he can get a look at the hand in question.

"Really," insists Chris.

"I'm not in trouble?" Jim asks, hopefully.

"No," he assures. "Let's go home, son. Your mother has dinner waiting." The endearment slips out and he holds his breath to see if Jim will have an adverse reaction. He meant it as an endearment and nothing more, certainly not an indication of replacing George he fears the boy might mistake it for. Whatever Jim thinks, he doesn't let Chris in on it, just follows him back home.

A full year goes by and the Kirk family begins to seem like their old selves. The boys are happy and carefree as they can be and Winona has come out of her depression, embracing family life and the comfort of her children. It's picture perfect domestic bliss and if Chris isn't careful he'll get sucked into a life that's not his. He should be getting back to his life but he can't bear the thought of leaving anymore.

* * *

It's a cold winter's night and Chris is bringing in the last load of fire wood for the night while Winona's doing dishes. The boys are fast asleep and the house is cozy and quiet. He piles the logs next to the stove and when he turns around Winona is standing there, so close he can feel the heat from her body. Before he can make sense of what's happening, she's kissing him like her life depends upon it. It's everything Chris has ever wanted and it takes more strength then he thought he had to pull away. "What are you doing?" he asks.

"I'd thought it would be obvious. You've taken care of me and the boys..."

Chris gently pulls her hands away from his face. "I didn't do it for this," he insists, because it's the truth. This is a life he always dreamed of but it's just that, a dream and it doesn't truly belong to him. The price for it is far more than he was ever willing to pay.

"But this is what you always wanted," corrects Winona, sternly.

"What about George?"

"He's not here anymore," she snaps with a bitterness that seems to run in the family when discussing George's untimely absence.

As much as Chris did want this, he doesn't want to be the backup option or steal a family from his friend's blessed memory. He was willing to fight for Winona before she said 'I do' but he takes those vows seriously, even if they weren't his own. "How's this going to work, Winona? You didn't wait for me the first time I left for the army, are you saying you'll wait this time?" It's the first time he's voiced his intention to return to military life out loud. It was easier to stay and do right by George's family when he believed there was no chance with Winona. Now, knowing how easy it would be to replace George, he can't bear the thought.

"You're leaving again?" hisses Winona, turning to ice.

"Yes," Chris whispers. God help him, he'll walk away if it's what's best for them.

Winona turns sharply. "You should leave now then. Cause I'm not going to love another man who's aiming to end up in a pine box before my boys are twelve. Especially when Jim looks at you the way he used to look at George."

There's so much hurt and agony in her voice, Chris just wants to hold her and never let go. But she's right. Even if he could find peace in the idea of having a family life with Winona, eventually the itch to return to the life he created would become too much and he can't put this family through losing someone again.

He turns Winona to face him, wiping away the tear rolling down her cheek before placing a chaste kiss on her forehead. "I'll leave in the morning."


	9. Pike pt 2

Chris still keeps in touch through letters. He can't walk away completely but staying is just going to make things harder for everyone. It only takes a couple of months before Winona gets over her anger and replies. He devotes half his wages to sending to the Kirk's, and Winona's letters detail exactly what good his money does and how the boys are doing. She writes of Sam stepping up and becoming the man of the house and the trouble Jim inevitably gives her; how much his being like George breaks her heart a little more every day. They both know where that road is destined to lead.

When Winona writes him to say Jim has left the farm to find his own way, it takes Chris all of two weeks to track the boy down. It breaks his heart to see the life Jim is trying to carve out for himself but he stops himself from dragging Jim home kicking and screaming. Jim has an impossible shadow to live in, one even Chris didn't want to step into, and Jim can't escape it at all. He decides to let Jim try and forge his own path; writing Winona to tell her Jim's alright and he'll keep an eye out for him. Jim doesn't always make it easy, but Chris manages to pull strings when he needs to.

* * *

Chris isn't surprised when the Sheriff confirms who he has in the jail cell; disappointed, maybe, but not surprised. It's far from the promising life the Kirk's had envisioned for their youngest and the complete opposite of everything George stood for but he supposes that's the point. If Jim can't surpass the shadow of a legend then he's going to do a one-eighty and excel at being the exact opposite so there is no comparison to make. If only the kid knew just how George Kirk that move was. Still, he can't let George's little boy throw his life away out of youthful stubbornness, not when the future is still for bright and promising. Jim's clearly going to need a more hands on approach.

Chris rolls his eyes as he steps into the Sheriff's office and hears the enthusiastic moans of a young lady that's probably more in love with danger than the young man in the cell and any satisfaction he can bring her. He has to give Jim props for being brave enough to seduce the sheriff's daughter, deflowering her in public, and a cell no less, where he has nowhere to run; but he absolutely cannot abide stupidity. And if there's one thing James Kirk isn't, it's stupid.

Since it looks like Jim has no interest in stopping, even with and audience, Chris clears his throat and asks, "Aren't you in enough trouble already?"

The girl gasps going rigid in Jim's arms before frantically trying to set her dress to rights. Jim makes an exaggerated look of disappointment as she flees the cell, too red in the face to even look at Chris. Kirk takes in the uninvited guest out of the corner of his eye before shifting to sit properly on his cot. He sits perfectly still and tries to look uninterested as he greets the man standing on the right side of the bars. "Well, if it isn't Lieutenant Pike."

Chris ignores the tone and attitude being thrown at him. Cocky has always been Jim's first line of defense, but Pike's seen what lies beneath. He's seen those blue eyes full of tears and a trembling lip that refused to hold back the earth shattering sorrow that embraced Jim at a young age. "Actually, it's Captain now," corrects Pike, pulling up a chair.

Jim rolls his eyes and slumps back against the wall.

"You know I couldn't believe it when the Sheriff told me your name, that _you_ landed yourself in here," starts Christopher conversationally. The truth is he can believe it. He might not have been standing in front of the kid to protect him from every punch thrown in his direction, because let's face it, the kid had some of them coming, but he's always taken his promise to protect George's children seriously. He's more than familiar with Jim's rap sheet, probably more so than Jim himself. Part of protecting Jim means not putting up with Jim's crap or letting him skate by.

"And who am I _Captain_ Pike?" interrupts Jim, irritation coloring his voice. He likes to conduct his sinning without the damning sermon after.

"Your father's son." The answers so simple but cuts so deep. Jim's been running from it for so long; it's not a pressure he can live up to. He doesn't even know if he wants to try. Besides, being as self righteous as George Kirk doesn't seem like it would be all that fun.

A fond look passes over Pike's face. "You know what I loved about your father? He didn't believe in no win scenarios."

Jim lets out a long huff before muttering, "Sure learned his lesson."

Pike shrugs nonchalantly. It's a lesson none of them should have had to learn. "Well that depends on how you define winning. You're alive aren't you?" Jim turns his head, suddenly fascinated with the wall. Christopher opts to change tactic. "You like being the only genius level repeat offender in the Midwest

"Maybe I love it," Jim counters, tacking on his devil may care smile for effect.

"Maybe," emphasises Pike, "you were meant for something special."

Jim frowns. "What? Join the army like you? You must be low on your quota if you want someone like me to join."

"I saw your handiwork in the saloon. Saloon brawls and stealing cattle are a waste of your talent." Even a week later, the saloon still looks like a war broke out in it. Jim's alleged crimes are lengthy and varied. The ones the Sheriff in this town can actually pin on Kirk are cattle rustling and assault, though the Sheriff isn't terribly upset with who Jim had beaten to a pulp more at the damage to his town.

"I didn't start the fight. The guy came looking for me," retorts Jim. He's never disputed the facts just the cause.

"Because you stole his cattle," counters Pike. Jim's malicious streak is confined to himself; those that get swept up in it usually have it coming. The kid's probably simultaneously the biggest jackass and most generous honorable person he's ever met.

Jim explodes, rising to his feet to pace in front of the cell bars. "He stole them first!"

Pike looks at Jim with disbelief. He's already pieced together the story, he just wants to hear it from Jim's own mouth, figure out if the kid even knows what drives him despite trying to bury the impulse under the same six feet of dirt as his father.

"The guy is leasing land to new settlers. He waits until they get established and raises the rent beyond what they can afford before first harvest or slaughter. When they can't pay, he takes the livestock leaving the families without any means to make money or even feed themselves. I gave the cattle back to their rightful owners."

Pike smiles like Jim just proved his point. "That's why you should join. We restore law to the land and make it safe for civilized people to live their lives out here. You can make sure another Nero doesn't destroy someone else's life." It's a low blow, but the point stands. Jim has the potential to help a lot of people but first Chris has to save him from himself.

Kirk flops back on his cot looking like a wounded animal. Defeat laces his voice when he asks, "We done?"

Pike nods and gets up from his chair. He stops at the door but doesn't turn to look at Jim. "Your father was the Sheriff in Federation City for over a year and a deputy for nearly five. In that time he protected that town from tyranny and the evils of the world. Most of that town owes their lives to your father. I dare you to do better with your life."

In the morning the Sheriff comes to Pike's room in the hotel and tells him the prisoner is requesting to speak with him. Chris feels better knowing Jim will be within arm's reach for awhile. After he sweet talks the sheriff into letting Jim go as Chris's recruit and they're on the trail, he'll write Winona and let her know.

* * *

Chris is enjoying a glass of some old whisky from back east when a fight breaks out in the saloon. His first instinct is to ignore it; he's her about a girl, one whose gift with languages could make his life and that of his regiment's far easier as they travel these lawless and wild lands. If he gets side tracked with this, he could miss her again.

There's something about the kid in the middle of the fight. He has no real fight training and is losing but there's a determination and spirit behind the anger driving his punches that with a little attention could turn into something useful. Chris has seen him around town and in a few other trail stops for that matter. The Asian kid is a diamond in the rough but given the climate of people's bigotry he's never going to be polished without a little assistance. Pike swallows down his drink and reconciles with the idea of taking in another stray.

He grabs the kid by the shoulder and pulls him off the asshole who started the whole ruckus with his small mindedness and hatred of something so superficial as skin color. The kid turns his energy towards Pike but the captain isn't some dimwitted drunk in a saloon. After defecting a couple of wild swings, Chris has the kid in a headlock as he escorts him out of the saloon and into the empty street. He tosses the kid in the water trough with the warning to, "take a minute and cool off."

Sulu comes up coughing and sputtering, the cold water a complete shock to the system but does serve to calm him down and reduce his rage to a well aimed simmer. He kicks the side of the trough but gains nothing but causing a wave motion to wash back on him, splashing and filling his mouth with the dirty water.

Ah the petulance of youth, thinks Chris as he tries not to laugh. Jim has the same self-destructive temper. "You about done?"

Sulu glares at the soldier that's looking at him expectantly. "Yeah," he snarls.

Chris offers his hand to help the kid out of the trough, which he begrudgingly accepts.

As Sulu attempts to wring out his shirt, he asks, "The army got a vested interest in saloon brawls now?"

Chris smiles. It's like talking to a younger Jim Kirk with a smaller chip on his shoulder. "No. But I might have a vested interest in you."

"Why's that?"asks Sulu, all attitude.

"I've been watching you for a couple of days..." states Pike. It's not entirely a lie, Sulu did catch his eye when he arrived in town, even if it's not the reason Chris is here, but playing on a potential recruit's ego never hurts.

"If you need someone to shine your shoes for you, you're barking up the wrong tree. I'm no one's personal servant."

"Wasn't looking for one," counters Chris. Dealing with troubled youth is often like bashing his head against a post but the rewards of the challenge are usually worth it. "I'm Captain Christopher Pike and the army might just be what you're looking for."

Sulu snorts. "I don't exactly fit the army's idea of a recruit, Captain Pike."

Pike tips his head in agreement. His superiors aren't going to like this anymore than they liked Jim but he'll have a little time to get them to warm up to the idea this time since Sulu is clearly too young to join yet. "Maybe not, but you fit mine."

"How so?"

"You don't back down, even if you're not sure you can win. You're not a blacksmith by trade but you picked up enough to be competent pretty quickly. Enough raw talent that you could be trained to be a decent soldier. And I've seen you with the horses; you have a way with animals. Having a dependable horse to ride into battle with is important." Sulu's about to walk away when Pike adds, "You know how to use that sword you carry around in your sac?"

Sulu stops. "I know enough," he lies, all defensive and irritated.

"I could set you up with someone that knows how to use it. Roof over your head, steady work training horses for my regiment and training until your old enough to join," offers Chris with the most sincere look. "Join and you could have something worth fighting for that'll make a difference in people's live instead of trying to satisfy that chip on your shoulder."

"Why do you care?"

"Under the brooding and bar fights I see someone looking for something better, a chance to be better. The whole world is lying ahead of you; you just have to go about another way of getting there. What have you got to lose?"

Reluctantly, Sulu agrees and after getting a goodnight sleep at the local boarding house they ride out of town together. Chris might not have gotten to give his recruitment speech to Uhura but at least his trip wasn't a complete waste. He'll take Sulu out to a friend's homestead to train, study and work for his keep. Jack owes him a favor or two anyways and he's the only one Chris knows that's really any good with a sword beyond hacking away at people on the battle field. In a couple years time, he just might have a useful officer out of this arrangement. He's seemed to developed a soft spot for hard luck stories

* * *

It's a few months later that he catches up to the legendary Uhura. She's storming towards the local saloon looking every inch pissed off vengeance. "I hear you have a very unique and unparalleled skill set," calls Chris, halting her march into the saloon.

Uhura gives him a dirty look. "You can't afford me," she sneers. "More importantly, you wouldn't know what to do with a woman like me."

"I'm not interested in hiring you for that," insists Chris, though given the hour and loitering in the shadows, he can see how she jumped to that conclusion.

"And just what would you need me for..." She lets it hang in the air because no matter what the man's looking for manners are always important.

"Captain Pike," offers Chris. "And I hear that when it comes to speaking languages, there's no one better."

"That's true," agrees Uhura triumphantly. Flattery is always a good start but she has no vendetta against the captain and there for no time to waste on him.

"The army could use that to help negotiations and relations with the local tribes."

"The army doesn't negotiate, they slaughter the tribes that refuse to leave," she counters, because as far as she's concerned lies are a horrible way to start a business deal. Unlike most settlers, she's heard the other side of the story straight out of the tribes' mouths.

"Maybe if we had someone that spoke the language that would happen less." Chris tosses her a purse of money to show just how sincere he is in the offer. He knows mistakes have been made but he hopes they can do better and Uhura could be a key piece in that puzzle.

Uhura counts the coins. Captain Pike seems sincere in what he wants but she's seen firsthand too many times that the easiest solution as far as the army is concerned is to annihilate anyone who doesn't share their view of the new world. She has enough blood on her hands by her own doing, she doesn't need to add more on someone else's behalf. "I don't work for murders."

"We're not..."

"You are. It doesn't matter what your sales pitch, my answer is no. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a pressing matter to attend to."

He lets her walk away. It isn't the answer he's looking for but Uhura doesn't seem like the type to press into anything. He'll find away to get her on his cause, he just has to find a better opening.

* * *

Lieutenant Kirk speeds up, he's almost within distance to grab the little vagrant when the thief launches himself off the hitching post and onto the roof. Jim's about to follow suit when Pike grabs him by the arm, stopping his accent.

Pike leans close, and calmly says, "Let him go." Chris doesn't have the patience to watch Jim chase a street kid.

"But he stole my watch," protests Kirk, pulling back and following the thief with his eyes.

"He needs it more than you," suggest Pike. The kid looks like he could use a good meal and Pike doesn't have time to chase Jim all over the place for something as trivial as a pocket watch, which really, Jim should have been able to hang on to. If the is kid is good enough to relieve Jim of his possessions, then the kids has earned it and Jim gets a valuable lesson in paying attention. Really Chris should offer to buy the kid a meal for getting one over on Kirk, who could stand a little humility every now and then.

He makes a mental note to keep an eye out and an ear open for information on the street kid. He's a little young right now but his skills are sharp; definitely someone Chris could use in his regiment after he irons out some of the kid's wrinkles.

"Come on, I have a possible recruit I want to look at," urges Chris as he heads towards the sheriff's office. People either brave or dumb enough to be explosives experts are hard to come by and Chris isn't going to be too picky about where he finds one. Besides he pulled Kirk out of a jail cell and that's worked out so far... for the most part anyways; Pike tries not to notice the extra grey setting in around the edges of his hair since Jim started riding with him.

* * *

Chris has Jim wait outside while he goes in to assess and possible give his sales pitch to one Montgomery Scott whose skills are at present languishing in a cell for something regarding a drunken display of his explosives brilliance. The sheriff isn't thrilled about Scott's potential free pass out of jail but like most law enforcement officials, the prospect of getting someone like Scott out of their hair is too tempting to deny Pike's request. He grabs the tray of food the sheriff left on his desk for the prisoner and heads to the cells in the back.

"What have you brought me today?" comes a Scottish voice, as the man swings his feet over the side of the cot to sit up to look at what he supposes in the deputy bringing his food. "You're not the deputy," he says bewildered at the stranger holding his dinner tray. He eyes him carefully taking in every inch of the stranger.

Pike puts the tray down on the desk and pulls the chair close to the cell. Both parties manage to avoid eye contact as they assess one another. He's read the reports about Scott but like most men, he more than the sum of his rap sheet.

"What's for dinner," Scotty asks nervously, rubbing his hands up and down his thighs.

The Captain reaches over and lifts the lid off the tray and examines the contents. "Looks like some sort of stew," he says casually. Chris is exceptionally good at poker, learning more about a person in what they say and do at the card table than the cards they play. He needs to be sure about taking Scott on. The higher ups aren't thrilled about Chris's less than orthodox recruits and one slip by any of them will have their newest acquisition back in a jail cell and Kirk and Sulu out of Chris's protective reach and at the mercy of an army that didn't want either to start with.

"Well how bout it then?" Scotty motions towards the tray of food. Much to his dismay the Captain sets the lid down and turns his focus back to Scotty. The man's easygoingness does nothing to soothe the engineer's unease and suspicion.

"That was an interesting little stunt you pulled." It was reckless and stupid and something Chris himself won't tolerate but it's still one hell of an audition.

"It was no wee stunt," snaps Scotty, feathers clearly ruffled. "Way I hear it they're pullin gold outta that hole as we speak." It's bad enough he has to suffer this indignity, he won't have his work impugned. Some people just refuse to acknowledge brilliance.

"I've asked around about you," continues the Captain undeterred by the hostility radiating off of the prisoner.

Scotty sneers. "All good things, I'm sure."

"You're a brilliant engineer." It's the truth, though he did have to dig through the condemnation people seemed to pile on when he asked about Scotty. It seems the last few towns the Scotsman staggered through thought little of the man, but respected his talent.

Scotty sits up a little straighter, a little more intrigued. "Go on."

"I could use someone with your skills. If you're willing to join, I can get you out of here, today." The deal's already in place all that remains is whether or not Chris puts the key in the lock and opens the cell door. If he wants to keep his reputation as a miracle worker in the eyes of his recruits, it doesn't hurt for them to think Chris put himself out, getting them out trouble.

"What? Me join the army? I don't bloody think so." He crosses his arms for good measure.

The Captain shrugs as though it makes no difference in his day. "Suit yourself. If you'd prefer to languish here instead of putting your talents to use I can find someone else to certify ordnance and fix things." He gets up and straightens his jacket. "Enjoy your stay here," he bids before making his way to the door, the tray of food still sitting out of reach on the sheriff's desk.

"Wait!" Scott calls out, his stomach rumbling. "Are you gonna have food?"

The Captain stops and walks back to the cell, looking serious. "I'm sure we can find you a hot meal." There are worse reasons to join than food and shelter. He takes the key off the desk and unlocks the cell door setting Scotty free. "Captain Christopher Pike of the twelfth regiment." He offers his hand to Scotty and they share a firm handshake. "Welcome to the army."

Scotty follows Pike outside where Kirk is waiting on a horse. As usual Jim is paying more attention to the girls trying to draw future clients into the brothel than the pair walking out of the Sheriff's office. Clearly Jim's lesson in humility from the street kid stealing his watch didn't stick as much as Chris had hoped.

Pike takes the reins for his horse that Kirk is holding and climbs up. "This is Lieutenant Kirk," he says pulling the kid's attention to the matter at hand. "He'll see to it you get a good meal, a comfortable sleep and a uniform in the morning before bringing you to camp." Pike has things like shelter and food to offer recruits down on their luck but Kirk can sell the advantages of a second chance far better than Chris can. No doubt there will be a few fires to put out tomorrow, literal and figurative ones knowing these two, but if he can shape Scott into a half way decent officer, it will be worth it.

The Lieutenant on the horse nods. "Yes sir."

"Kirk," warns Pike, leaning over to make sure the Lieutenant hears him and subsequently Scotty through the less than subtle tone, "don't make me have to come back here in the morning to bail you two out of jail." He spurs his horse onward taking the road out of town towards the army camp. The army doesn't stay in town, preferring to erect their own base camps to keep the men from running amuck in town. Pike doesn't have to look back to know those two will get on like a house on fire.

* * *

Chris leans against the post and watches the street. He's been subtly watching the kid for a few days now and has to admit his sleight of hand is damn near perfect but habits and routines are going to be his downfall. He waits patiently as the kid tries to give his pursuers the slip and makes his way towards Chris's position.

The kid is so busy looking over his shoulder he doesn't notice Pike until he's got the kid by the wrist. "I've seen this trick before," says the captain as he pulls Pavel away from the post.

"Nyet, let go," snaps Pavel, as he struggles to break free.

It's been a year but it's clear by the look on the kid's face he hasn't forgotten Pike and the fact that he let him escape with the Kirk's watch last time. Chris pushes Pavel against the wall and reaches into each of his pockets, searching until he comes up with the roll of dollar bills he stole from the two men that were chasing him.

The captain looks at the boy's ill-gotten gains and shakes his head. It's an impressive score but someone with the kid's abilities should be able to make a living through more honest means. Someone that knows this land and how to navigate it as well as Chekov would be an asset to many companies but his age and fragile handle on English limits his opportunities. His grip is firm but not cruel, so the kid can't break away not matter how much he struggles to do so.

The rightful owners of the cash storm towards the pair. Their rage is clear even if their rants are mumbled and lost under thick accent. Their words might not be clear but their intent is.

"Here," says Chris, tossing the roll to the two men without taking his eyes off of the boy.

"Little thief! I'll teach you to steal from me," yells one of the men raising his fist to drive it hard at Pavel's head.

Pavel clenches his eyes shut and braces himself for the blow but it doesn't come.

"He's not your problem anymore," warns the captain, "he's mine." Chris is all for punishment but the punishment should fit the crime and what these men want to do is far too extreme for a kid just trying his best to survive. Besides, it won't do to have his newest recruit bleeding and broken before he can be of any value to Pike.

"But," starts the other man.

"No but. Walk away before we have a problem." The captain turns his hip slightly so the sun casts a glint off of his side arm. Looking disappointed, the men walk away mumbling threats of what Pavel can expect as soon as his bodyguard disappears.

"Let's go get a drink, son," says Chris, trying to relieve some of the anxiety rippling off of the kid. Of course it's anything but a request as he drags the kid along by the arm.

They take a seat at a table in the back but Chris refuses to let the bartender serve Chekov anything with alcohol. The kid might be on his own trying to survive in a grown up world but Pike isn't going to be party to the corruption of such a young soul. They sit there in awkward silence until the bartender brings their drinks.

"I think there are better uses for your talents than petty theft, don't you?" asks Chris, breaking the silence.

Pavel shrugs his shoulder.

"What's your name, son?" When he doesn't answer, Chris adds, "You do have a name don't you?

Chekov bites his lip and weighs his options. "It's Chekov, Pavel Andreievich."

"Well, Chekov, Pavel Andreievich, I'm Captain Christopher Pike and I've heard tales of an amazing scout out this way, young, but amazing. I was thinking of offering him a job to work for me. It means traveling with the army but that also includes shelter and daily meals. It means not having to steal anymore, which would be expressly forbidden. You wouldn't know where I could find him?"

Pavel takes a minute to think it over. "I will be your scout, Captain."

Chekov is by far the youngest unorthodox find he's made and while his skills are unparallel, he can't in good conscious let the kid join or forge any paper work to make him old enough to join. He can't let the kid wander the streets until he is old enough either, so against better judgment, that means the kid will just have to tag along. Chris will do his best to keep Chekov away from the blood and death aspects of the army and keep him safe until such time as the boy can decide for himself if he wants to don the regiment's uniform. Until then, this is the best option for the kid.

* * *

Chris is more than aware Jim has banded together all of his usual recruits. He also isn't bind to what they get up to at Kirk's direction. While Scotty and Sulu are old enough to know better, it's Chekov he's most concerned about in this mix. Jim won't intentionally put the kid in danger but Jim sometimes has a hard time keeping himself out of trouble let alone making sure someone who looks at him like the big brother that hung the moon is out of the thick of it.

It's a sad reality that Pavel will need the skills Kirk, Scotty and Sulu have all learned at entirely too young an age, so he tends to look the other way and make sure none of them fall too hard or too fast. They're all too young to be this hardened by life in his opinion.

He has that uneasy feeling in his gut at the prospect of sending Kirk out into the world on his own and imagines it's the same feeling Winona had when she watched him walk down the trail from the farm and from her to live life out from under his father's sacrifice. This isn't his little bird about to take flight, but George's, though Chris will never forgive himself if something happens to Jim. The other side of the coin is Chris can't be the one to stifle Jim either and has to give the kid every opportunity to grow and experience all that's offered.

The negotiations with the Vulcans is a once in a lifetime opportunity to see diplomacy in action and Kirk could stand to see something other than brute force out of the army. Jim has the potential to be a great leader if Chris can just round him out and file down some of the suborn edges.

He calls Jim to his tent to deliver the news about his change in assignment and is pleased to see the kid taking it seriously. He agrees to let him take Scotty because the two might get into trouble on a regular basis, they also manage to keep the other out of trouble just as much. He denies him Chekov though. Jim will have too much to do to babysit and leaving Pavel at the mercy of another regiment would be akin to throwing the boy in a wolf den to fend for himself. Chris tries not to think of it as not being ready to have all the children leave home yet.

Pike watches quietly from just outside his tent as Kirk gives his father's gun to Chekov to hold until his return and feels nothing but pride at the man Jim's shaping up to be. He's sure Winona will be just as proud when he writes her and tells her of just what a fine upstanding officer her son is growing into and he knows George would be proud too.

Camp is quiet without Jim around. It's a peacefulness that starts out as a blessing but quickly turns to wearing on Chris's nerves. Having no fires to put out leaves him with a lot of time on his hands and with no pet projects in the works, he finds he doesn't know what to do with himself.

Somewhere in all the boring it seems Sulu and Chekov have fortified some sort of friendship. It's a good pairing, Chekov needing a big brother and Sulu finding someone to act as a little brother in the absence of his thirteen siblings. They're a less destructive duo than Kirk and Scotty so Pike tries not to worry too much about them.

The quiet doesn't last as long as Chris would like. It's a case of say the devil's name and he shall appear because as soon as he acknowledges the quiet it's broken as a rider comes in to camp like fire is licking his heals. Pike knows in an instant trouble is on the horizon. Perhaps he shouldn't have let Jim spread his wings after all.

It takes everything he has to sit quietly and listen to the charges and accusations against Jim, from the complete and utter breakdown of negotiations with the Vulcans. He can't argue that he can't imagine Jim doing it, he can; the boy's been raising hell since he learned how to walk, however he can't believe Jim would do it without a damn good reason.

The charge of treason comes with one sentence and it turns Chris's stomach to think about Jim hanging. He wasn't there to spare George from the end of a rope but he's going to be damned if he can't protect that little boy from his father's fate. The army just doesn't know they type of blood that runs through Jim's veins.

For the first time Chris ignores orders in favor of his own agenda and orders his men to march towards Talos. Time is against him but he has to get there, has to offer some defense to make everyone understand Jim isn't the enemy; something far fowler must be at play. Once the tribunal sentences Jim, execution will follow swiftly. Chris has to, he needs to, get there in time to change their minds and pull Kirk from the fire once more. He would rather offer up his own life than half to write Winona and try to explain what horror has befallen her baby boy. There has to be some valid reason and argument he can give for Jim's actions that can redeem him to the brass and poke holes through what sounds like an air tight case. Leave it to Jim, he never does anything half way.

* * *

They're too late when they arrive at the fort. It's a warzone and Jim and apparently his new Vulcan friends are long gone. It's a relief and a blow. Jim's alive but whatever the kid has gotten himself tangled up in is going to be impossible for Pike to sweet talk his way out of. The noose is getting tighter and tighter around both their necks.

He orders his men to help with the repair efforts at the fort while he does some serious investigating of his own into what exactly happened at Vulcan. Things aren't adding up and it's not just the uncharacteristic moves by Jim. Scotty is nowhere to be seen and no one has seen him since he was brought in for questioning about the explosives used during the uprising. Chris now has two officers to find, but he has to keep up appearances of being the perfect officer and maintaining their agenda or be shut out completely.

It's mostly whispers about what people saw or heard leading up to the uprising but it's painting a pretty bad picture and leaving Chris's gut full of doubt about just what he's dedicated his life to. He's not blind to the mistakes that have happened in the past but there has always been a spirit of aim to do better next time. Now the sent is growing foul and it pains him to think how much of his life he's devoted to the cause, how much of George's life was devoted to it too. It's the third day of being stonewalled by his commanders and Chris leaves the meeting in a huff. Even if the army stands by its decision to hang Kirk, someone has to bring the kid in and there's no reason Chris can see that it can't be him; it won't be Pike's intention to bring Jim back for army justice but the army doesn't know that.

It's Sulu that braves his scowl and asks, "Is there any news?"

Pike stops by his two soldiers, deflating slightly. He's not the only one concerned. "Kirk's wanted for treason. When captured, he's to be brought before a military court and hung. They seem unwilling to entertain any alternate views about what happened with the Vulcans."

"Is there anything we can do to help him?" questions Chekov.

"The army's not going to help Jim and they're certainly not going to let me help him by finding the truth." Pike looks forlorn and a little lost, like this is the fork in the road and he only has one chance to choose a path and forever live with the consequences. He's worked hard for his career, sacrificing everything for it. Helping Jim means losing everything he has. Pike realizes it's not even a decision. There is nothing to think about. "So I'm going to have to help Jim without army approval."

Normally it's not something he would advertise but Sulu and Chekov need to know he won't be available to be in their corner anymore. He can hide his true intentions for a while but eventually the army is going to figure out he's using his rank and their resources to clear Kirk's name or find him and put him well out of the army's reach. When they do figure it out, the best scenario will be he loses his rank and privilege in a dishonorable discharge. The more likely scenario is Pike spends some serious time behind bars. When that time comes, Sulu and Chekov are going to be on their own in this army. They've suffered enough hardships in life, the least Chris can do is give them fair warning of the coming one.

Sulu stands up tall and proud. "You can count me in, Sir."

He wasn't looking for volunteers and certainly isn't keen on dragging anyone else through the oncoming fire with him. "I can't ask you to do that Sulu. You have a promising career here, you shouldn't throw that away," counters Chris.

"With all due respect, Sir, that's bullshit. The only reason I'm here is because of you and the only one that gives me a fair shot is Kirk. He'd do it for anyone else, so it's the least I can do," proclaims Sulu.

Pavel chews on his bottom lip. Pulling out Jim's gun from his coat pocket he admires it as the sun glistens off the well polished metal. "I must give this back to Lieutenant Kirk personally," he declares, throwing his lot in with Pike and Sulu.

Chris is overcome with a sense of pride. He'd bask in it but he has a mission to get under way.

* * *

Chris steps in the smoke filled saloon and glances around at the packed house. He's been chasing Jim's trail for days but the kid's as elusive as a ghost. He can only hope the army is having as much trouble at pinning Kirk down as he is. The best chance he can give is to run interference between the two sides and give Jim and company a chance to put more distance between them. Running scared doesn't leave room for effective planning so any advantage he can give Kirk is a chance he has to take.

His sales pitch wasn't well received by Uhura before but circumstances are different now; maybe hers are too. He isn't here to sell the army's cause this time, but a more righteous one. He pushes his way past the drunks to the table in the back.

Chris reaches into his pocket and grabs a handful of coins in the hopes of buying her services and sits down across from her. The clink of several coins hitting the table startles her out of her reverie.

Her hand falls on top of the pile of coins as she slides them back across the table. "I don't work for the army. Massacring tribes and tricking them into giving up their land isn't really my thing." Her face is impassive but her voice is direct and clear.

Chris has to admire her moral stance especially when he knows it isn't easy for her to make decent money. "I'm not so sure I work for the army anymore either," replies Pike, sliding the coins back towards Nyota. He has enough clout and friends that if he turned back now he could ingratiate himself back into the army and continue with the life he thought he wanted. It would mean leaving Jim out in the cold and while the army might over look Chris's trespass, they won't over look that of those who chose to follow him in helping Kirk. He can't grab onto safety at the expense of his men or his friends, but the underlying drive is the thought of abandoning that tearful six year old that couldn't bear to let go of his hand for a week after the funeral.

"I thought you were their poster child, Captain Pike. What happened?"

Pike shrugs. The army had become his whole life, the constant he could count on when everything else was in chaos. It had given him a purpose and direction but most importantly something he could get behind. Now that their objectives no longer align he's not sure how sad he is to see his place there come to an end. It's not what he signed up for as a young adventurous and optimistic kid determined to not let his best friend go it alone anymore. "We're having a disagreement. But that's not why I'm here."

"Why are you here?" asks Uhura.

"I know you've had experience with Jim Kirk before," starts Pike, ignoring the eye roll at the kid's name. Jim has a reputation, which often precedes him, that seems to evoke the same reaction out of people.

"This isn't a good way to start a conversation, especially if you want something from me."

"He's in trouble," he continues. Chris doesn't know exactly what Jim's done to run afoul of Uhura but he's counting on her bleeding heart for a cause that she buries deep down to trump whatever bonehead thing Jim's done to piss her off and earn her wrath.

"There's a surprise."

"He tried to stop the massacre at Vulcan but the army isn't viewing it that way. I think he might come to you for help." Chris wagers that if he can't convince her to help Kirk because he's actually the victim here, her soft spot for the indigenous people's plight might be enough bait to get her to bite.

Her opinion of Kirk isn't the highest, and the kid definitely has a few things coming his way but trying to save a whole tribe of people shouldn't be one of those things. Despite the swagger, cockiness and brashness, Kirk is oddly capable of helping those who need it. "I doubt Kirk's dumb enough to come to me for help. And what could I possibly help him with?"

"I think he's desperate enough to take help from anyone right now. And you can get him through the valley the fastest with your connections to the tribes there. That kind of help can get him out of the clutches of his pursuers." Pike points to the stack of coins. "That's payment for you to consider providing your services should he show up here."

"Consideration? That's it? What if I decide no?"

He's pretty confident he knows which side of honor Uhura sits even if she's spent the last few years taking the law into her own hands. "Then he'll have to find another way through and you'll have to live with letting a good man suffer when you could have helped. Hear him out, that's all I ask." Pike excuses himself from the table and leaves, feeling mostly confident he's secured a helping hand for Kirk.

* * *

The line's been drawn in the sand and Chris finds himself on the opposite side of the army he dedicated his life to. He's finally caught up with Jim and his gang but doesn't have a clear picture what they're future is going to look like now. Answers about exactly what happened are within his reach and even if Jim says everything happened just like the official story the army gave Chris is true, he'll stand by the kid anyways. There's something about Kirk's that makes him want to put it all on the line.

"Hold it right there," orders Jim leveling his gun at Chris's head as it comes into view. The click of the hammer sliding back drives his point home; he has no compunction about using the gun. Pike raises his hands in surrender slowly turning around to get a good look at Kirk.

"Jim," he nods in acknowledgement. It wasn't the warm greeting he had been expecting but given the circumstances it's better than being shot on sight. He can't blame Jim for his caution given that the army he trusted has betrayed him, it's not out of the realm of possibility that Pike would do it too. He's actually kind of proud of the apprehension Jim's using instead of jumping blindly into them. "You really stepped in it this time kid." Trouble and Jim have always seemed to go hand in hand, so he can't say he's surprised to find Kirk at the center of the biggest shit storm in the last decade. There's no condemnation in his voice; a leopard can't change its spots any more than Jim can play the role of society sheep. Christopher had thought the brash and violent rebellion phase had passed in the last couple of years that he watched Jim grow into a fine upstanding officer but it was apparently the calm before the storm.

There's a subtle rustling sound coming from the other side of the stair case and Pike turns his head. "Spock," he greets as he catches sight of the Vulcan undercover of the other wall in the old rustic cabin. He's heard about the Vulcan that's been seen riding with Jim and isn't surprised Kirk's found himself an ally. Jim manages to inspire loyalty where ever he goes.

Spock's gun doesn't waver but his eyebrow arches in curiosity. "I do not believe we've been acquainted."

"You come to bring us in, _Captain_ Pike?" demands Jim, gravel in his voice, turning the attention back to himself. He looks torn about what could possibly play out here and Chris feels for the situation they're all in. The weeks of running and being dogged by every bounty hunter and lawman have taken their toll burning up any compassion Jim might have had. He's tired and running out of ideas.

"No," is Pike's simple answer. He slumps a little, going for a more casual appearance, less threatening.

Jim takes a step out of the shadows and his relative cover behind the wall, "How'd you find us?"

"Jim," sighs Pike, and it sounds a little frustrated, "there isn't anything I don't know about you." It has the virtue of being mostly true. He's been there since the beginning, when a starry-eyed George told him he's met a girl and was going to leave the army to settle down with this girl that made the moon and the stars shine. Pike had continued with his military career but he'd made a point to check in on the little family when passing through, watching it grow from two, to three, to four and then back to three. He's been the one that held a teary-eyed yet stoic six year old Jim's hand as they lowered George's coffin into the ground. He knows all Jim's haunts and _friends_ , where he runs and why. The only thing he can't accurately account for is the sheer depths of the kid's ballsy stupidity, but he isn't ever surprised by it.

Jim stands his ground and fights, so he had to still be in the area. He isn't stupid, despite the kid's best efforts to convince everyone he is, so he couldn't run anywhere obvious. That left Pike with a very narrow trail to zero in on. Winona's mother's old childhood home is far enough removed from both society and the Kirk name that unless someone was told, it's doubtful anyone would ever venture this far to look for two wanted criminals.

"What do you want?" Jim snaps, fingers tightening on the gun. If this is some friendly 'I'm your Captain and we can work this out together if you just come back and explain your side of things' conversation, he wants no part of it. This runs too deep to be talked out and Jim's not sure he wants to. He wants blood, he wants Nero's head and won't get that if he walks back into the hands of the organization that not only allied with the man but willingly put a rope around Jim's neck.

Pike nods his head towards the table, a sorry excuse for a meal, hastily interrupted lying scattered across it. "Why don't we sit down and talk about this, son." He needs Jim to calm down and listen to him, to really hear what he's going to say.

Jim scowls. "Nothing to talk about."

Pike shrugs his shoulders and cautiously takes slow measured steps toward a chair at the table. "When the army tells me my best Lieutenant incites mutiny and starts a savage uprising destroying any hope for peace with the Vulcans, I like to find out what the army did wrong."

Jim scrutinises every inch of Pike. Reluctantly, he holsters his gun and takes the chair opposite Pike. He leans back with his arms folded across his chest, hostility at the world rolling off of him in waves.

Spock takes a step further into the room but doesn't lower his weapon. Pike tries to ignore his systematic sweeping of the room for threats with his eyes. They're like spooked cattle more than trained soldiers which just emphasises the wrongness of the situation.

"I sent you on that mission because I thought seeing negotiations first hand might teach you some humility and the virtue of subtly." He picks up a hard misshapen blob that looks like it might pass for a biscuit and gives it a tentative sniff before hazarding a bit. "Imagine my surprise when I hear it all goes to hell, the formerly peaceful Vulcans have scattered to the wind after a bloody skirmish with the army and Jim Kirk is being hanged for treason, only to escape in a blaze of glory facilitated... are you ready for this part?" asks Pike looking serious.

Jim chews on his lip, looking cross and everywhere but at Pike.

"The son of the Vulcan chief." He glances at Spock but the Vulcan doesn't seem to be any more inclined to enlighten Christopher than Kirk. Pike has all the patients in the world; he can wait Kirk out if that's what it takes, because like a timid animal this won't work unless Jim comes to him. "You're going to have to trust someone some time Jim."

"We weren't there to negotiate anything," mutters Kirk. "It was a set up to kill the Vulcans and steal their land so the railway can come through. I don't know how high up the plan goes but it was sanctioned. Guess it's bad business for the world to find out we're starting the wars with the Indians so they pinned it to look like I started it when I warned the Vulcans of the impending attack. Seems Nero brokered a deal to help facilitate it. He was there and I didn't do anything. " The words come tumbling out of his mouth faster and faster. It's one thing to know the truth but he didn't know how much he needed someone to believe him until he was spewing the tale to Pike.

Christopher is quiet for a painfully long time. He's all too painfully familiar with the name Nero. It steals his breath that that name has come back to haunt them all. Things have just gone from bad to worse. Not only is there betrayal from the army but the added burn of finding out they would associate with a cowardice murderer like Nero.

Chris wants to fly apart and destroy the world for its unrelenting cruelty. He can't imagine how Jim is feeling right now. George is surely rolling over in his grave at this turn of events. Somehow, Chris has to fix this. He needs to fix it for George, who hasn't had justice yet. He needs to do it for Sam, who shouldn't know the man that murdered his father is enjoying the time George never got. He needs to do it for Winona, who he can't dare write and reveal this turn of events until he can assure her the monster is dead and her baby boy is safe. He must do this for Jim because he promised that devastated six year old it would all be alright.

This is huge, so big it could swallow them all. They need to start small; chip away at the mountain that's looming over them. "Well the first thing, is you're going to get a good night's sleep because you look like you're going to fall over, then we're going to have a decent cooked meal because this..." he gestures to the attempt at food on the plate, "is just sad." Pike uses his command voice, leaving no room for argument. "We'll work out a plan about what to do after that."

Jim nods his consent and Spock finally holsters his gun. Whatever Pike decides to do about them, it's tomorrows problem; today promises the first night of real rest since things started. Jim's too tired to turn this down.

Pike has Chekov and Sulu waiting in town. He'll ride out and get them while Jim sleeps and bring back all the makings of a good meal; Sulu is a wonder cook.

"I don't suppose you'd consider the easy way out and let me get you as far away from here as possible?" asks Chris, as he dumps Jim onto the bed. Running would be easier on the kid. He can live out the peaceful life he deserves and Chris can make good on his vow to keep the monsters at bay.

Jim shakes his head as he relaxes on the blankets. Now that he's horizontal the energy that's been keeping him going is fading fast. "Can't walk away," he mumbles tiredly, eyes already slipping shut. "Not while Nero's still out there."

A little smile creases Pike's lips. He knew the answer before he asked the question but he still had to give the kid an out. He wants nothing more than to spare what's coming for Kirk, what vengeance, revenge and survival are going to do to George and Winona's little boy. He's going to protect Jim for as long as possible and if that means waging war on the world, then that's what he'll do. But first he'll start by tucking the kid in just like he used to once do.

* * *

 ** _Thank you to everyone who read this story and/or commented, you're the best._**

 **Finally, last but not least, the final member to join the gang; Next story: McCoy's One Foot in Front of the Other**


	10. McCoy

**One Foot in Front of the Other**

The music drifts softly though the house like the gentle flame of the flickering candles lighting the whole affair. All the who's who of high society in Atlanta are in attendance, dancing and making polite conversation in their best clothing. The well timed polite giggles of fine ladies mixes with the brandy and cigar smoke of gentlemen making future business connections. It's one big power grab that leaves Leonard feeling like a piece of property, used to the betterment of everyone else with little regard for the wear and tear on his soul.

Leonard heaves a sigh and drinks back the last dredges of brandy in his glass before placing it on the fine linen table cloth and makes his way to the balcony. The stars twinkle above making him feel as small and unimportant as the party does. He's glad to be back home with family but all the ado about his return is a little much. These people aren't here because they missed him, hell, most probably don't know his first name just that he's the only child of David McCoy: the city's top doctor, and future heir to the McCoy fortune.

He rests his hands on the balcony railing, taking in a deep breath. He'd missed the smell of Georgia in the summer and the sight of lightening bugs floating around the hedges of the garden. New York had been a whirl wind experience full of culture, people and most importantly the cutting edge of medical techniques. For the first time in his life, Leonard had been free to do as he pleased. There was no pressure to put on a suit and make pleasant small talk with the town gossips. More importantly, there hadn't been any high society mothers trying to force him to dance with their daughters. His best friend, Clay Treadway, is graciously falling on his sword for Leonard by offering to take his turn with Atlanta's most eligible on the dance floor. While on the outside the act has all the appearance of being altruistic, Clay never turns down an opportunity to gain footholds on the social ladder. As much as it benefits Leonard, he knows Clay's motives were rooted in self-service. It's probably what makes their friendship work, Clay soaking up all the extra attention Leonard leaves on the table as he shies away from hollow high society interactions; the perfect ying to Leonard's yang.

"Hiding?" asks a voice from behind Leonard.

He tenses for a moment, believing that his momentary escape has been thwarted until something clicks in his memory. He turns around, a coy smile playing on his lips as he takes in the familiar face. "Jocelyn."

She steps out from the shadows to stand next to Leonard, appearing with an air of timeless beauty shrouding her in her stunning dress. There's a companionable silence as they both stare out into the garden, their shoulders pressed together. It's familiar, old friend's reconnecting with miles of history together, mostly forged as children playing while their families plotted and schemed about the vast empires they would leave their children. The last time he had seen Jocelyn she had been a young little thing on the cusp of womanhood; it appears he wasn't the only to grow up during his time away in New York. For a moment he doesn't feel like he's completely alone in a crowd of people.

"It's poor form for the honoree of this little soiree to be making himself scarce. Everyone's come to see you, the conquering hero returning from New York after studying medicine with the world's elite. You're going to make someone here a fine husband after you take over your father's practice and his fortune," she teases, knowing full well how he shies away from being the center of half hearted attention. If she's honest with herself, she's glad he's taken a moment from the throngs of people to seek out a quiet corner. Her childhood crush has bloomed into dashing young man. While the prospect of Leonard being a potential suitor growing up hadn't crossed her mind, it's definitely stirring something in her now.

Leonard lets his head hang, a pressure headache bringing to form. He doesn't share the grace she does with social events like this. Jocelyn is everything any well-to-do could dream of; social grace, keen intellect, savvy sense of politics all wrapped in one coveted package, while he bumbles and fumbles his way through pretending to aspire to being anything more than a simple country doctor. "It would be nice if people in this town didn't have my whole life planned out for me without even consulting me." It's a familiar pressure, not just placed on him by society, but his parents as well. It was preordained that he would follow in his father's footsteps and practice medicine and maintain the family keen sense of business dealings like the men on his mother's side of the family. While he had no interest in politics and the business of running the family plantations he did enjoy medicine and so had no major objection to catering to his family's whims on such matters. It's everything that comes after that that makes the world feel like it's pressing down on him. Hopefully this pressure renders him a diamond in the rough, rather than a piece of coal whose single purpose is to fuel the machine of life.

Her hand creeps slowly across the railing until it rests upon his. "If anyone is destined to pull it off, it would be you," she whispers. "I see huge things for you, Leonard. A great man should strive for nothing less." She speaks as though she's seen the future and knows for certain all the things Leonard can only hope for. She knows _his_ future all too well, the expectation and demand, and she kind of hopes that she might have a place in that future.

* * *

Leonard's hands tremble slightly as he struggles to put his cufflink in place; steadfast during surgery, they seem unequal to the task before him now. The butterflies in his stomach started early that morning and refused to give it a rest, rendering him an uncharacteristic ball of nerves. He finally settles down as he sees Jocelyn enter the church, striking in her white dress that had taken over a month to make. One look at her and his heart beats true and steady, the tremble in his hands gone and the feeling of certainty that he had four months ago when he asked for her hand in marriage is back. If this is love, than surely cupid has granted him wings.

The ceremony and ride back to his parents' grand house is a blur captured in her beautiful green eyes and never ending smile. The details of the day are lost. He knows everyone they know has stopped by to wish them well, partake in the party to celebrate their union and lay the ground work for favor with the new Mrs. Leonard McCoy, but all he can recall is how deep her eyes saw into his soul when she said 'I do.'

Leonard finds himself on the balcony outside the party, nostalgic for its company and cherished memory of reconnecting with Jocelyn a year earlier. The pressure of the world had seemed so great then but now with Jocelyn by his side, he feels he might be able to shoulder it. He works alongside his father and as luck would have it, was able to purchase a beautiful home not far from his parents' place to start building a beautiful family with his beautiful wife.

David walks out on to the balcony, the picture of refined regal dignity that Leonard can only aspire to when he gets older. He would never say his father was cold, but winning the man's approval has always been difficult. In all fairness, the man never held anyone to a standard he didn't hold himself.

Leonard gives his father a warm smile but never takes his eyes off Jocelyn as she makes small talk with the various groups of people scattered around the vast parlor. This moment is perfect, filling him with contentment that can't be rivaled by any other experience he's known.

David claps a firm steady hand on his son's shoulder. "Proud of you, boy. You done the McCoy name proud." His voice breaks a little on the words as a tear of joy gathers at the corner of his eye. It's the culmination of eighteen years of work; he's watched something that started out so small and fragile grow beyond his imagination. Leonard has made himself worthy of not only the name but all the effort and experience his parents have put into him.

"Thanks, Pa," says Leonard, a warm feeling sweeping over him. His father's validation means as much to him as Jocelyn's acceptance of his proposal. He feels like he can take on the world and win. The future is wide and bright; full of possibility.

* * *

Leonard thought he knew happiness. His first brush with it was when his mother kissed him good bye at the train station before he left for New York. He thought he knew it again when his father shook his hand upon his return and offered him a key to his office. Marrying Jocelyn has been the top of his list for the last two years, but it all pales in comparison to this moment right now.

He's handled his fair share of babies, helped bring a few into the world, even, but none were as precious as the small bundle in his arms right now. She's perfect, from her cute little nose all the way to her toes. He smoothes down the shock of black hair as he rocks her back and forth. Exhausted Jocelyn fell asleep some time ago but Leonard can't bring himself to put his little girl down let alone close his eyes. He's almost terrified that if he goes to sleep, he'll learn she was just a dream. Three hours old and already he can't imagine his life without her.

"Hello there, Joanna. My little hummin' bird," he coos. His heart swells with pride.

The future before him is equal parts joyful and terrifying. He sees his little girl in her first party dress, the day she starts talking about boys, her wedding day when he has to entrust his precious baby to someone else. There are so many steps between then and now, he's afraid he'll screw it up somehow. There's so much more at stake now if he stumbles. He makes a silent promise to his bundle of joy, to do right by her and make sure she sees all the happiness he's envisioned for her.

* * *

"I can't do it Pa," whispers Leonard, in a voice so broken and pitiful he can't even recognize it. There's a burning lump in his throat that won't go away and a tightness in his chest making it hard to breathe. He understands where his father is coming from. He's seen men ravaged by this disease before and knows exactly what further degradation awaits his once proud father. He simply can't bear the thought.

"I ain't asking ya, I'm tellin ya boy," states David firmly, trying to hide his true feelings under a mask of authority. "Load that pistol, cock the trigger and put that gun in my hand." They both know what the coming days will bring, the suffering to not only David but the rest of the family. It's a gash in both their souls that neither one is skilled enough to repair.

Leonard was raised to be a good boy, respect his elders, mind his manners and keep the faith. As a doctor he knows the oath he swore to do no harm. What his father is asking goes against most of what he was taught. His oath prevents it, god forbids it and his heart can't bear to do it, but one look from David and the ghost of the man he used to be and longs to remain, has Leonard on his feet and heading for the dresser.

He knows if his father had the strength to lift his arms, let alone move his body anymore, he would be doing this without any witnesses, but now out of desperation he's begging his son to aid his quest; David McCoy has never begged anyone for anything in his whole life. He lifts the gun out of the drawer and checks the chamber; it already has a bullet ready. The cold steel leaves an icy tremor running through him as he returns to his father's bedside. Every fiber of his being wants to chuck the god-awful thing out the window but his hand disobeys his heart's commands and places it in his father's gnarled hand.

The silence is suffocating. He longs for the days when he was a young boy and he could run to his parents' bedroom and demand they protect him from the raging storm outside. His father can't protect him anymore; the man can't even protect himself. It falls to Leonard now to make the hard choices, to be the protector against all the ills of the world, to use everything David and Eleanor taught him, to make the world and hopefully himself better. They didn't teach him how to navigate this, doesn't know how his father manages to be the hero on the front lines with no one guiding him. Selfishly he wants to hide behind his father's shield for the rest of his days. The moment stretches out and Leonard almost believes his father has reconsidered his solution.

"I can't do it."

Leonard breathes a sigh of relief.

"I can't lift my arm."

Leonard's heart sinks. The gun is his father's last resort of saving what remaining tatters of dignity he has left and his body is too far gone to even allow him something as simple as sliding his arm up the bed to rest near his head.

"You're going to have to do it, son." There's a pleading in David's eyes that Leonard cannot ignore.

Carefully with a gentleness he reserves for Joanna, he warps his hand around his father's and lifts his arm to rest on the pillow by his head. Part of him wants to leave the room, to claim his duty done and leave his father to his own nasty business, but he knows David can't do this on his own. Even if he summons the strength to pull the trigger, and he's not talking about the man's will power, there's a chance his hand might spasm and shake sending the bullet off course. If this is going to happen, Leonard's going to make damn sure it's as quick and painless as possible. They both don't need to suffer needlessly.

"Thank you. You're a good boy, Leonard," whispers David, sincere and grateful.

Leonard can only nod; anything else will leave him a sobbing wreck. He doesn't feel good about his father's praise this time. His absolution of the pending crime isn't enough to keep the very fragile pieces of Leonard's heart together. He wiggles his finger behind the trigger guard and over his father's, watches as his father closes his eyes and peace washes over him. Leonard turns his head and closes his eyes, pressure steadily building in his index finger. The sharp bang of the gun causes him to flinch, sending tears rolling down his cheeks.

Eternity plays out, silent and accusatory in the wake of such violent and decisive noise. Leonard can't remember how to breathe, and is not sure he wants to. There's another bullet in the gun and it's the only antidote to the way he's feeling. He thinks about it for a moment, just one moment before Joanna floats into his mind. No matter what hell shackles he's placed upon himself he can't leave his baby alone in this world. His penance shouldn't be her burden to carry.

The frantic thudding of someone running up the stairs spurs Leonard into action. He pulls the bed sheet over his father's head just as his mother burst through the bedroom door. She doesn't need to see the bright red blood staining the pillow and sheets. He can't spare her the heartache but he can mitigate the damage.

It doesn't take a genius to put the situation together. David is dead, Leonard is broken and the gun is lying accusingly on the floor. David had been talking about it for days but Eleanor knew he lacked the strength to do it. She failed to take in account David's strength to spur their son to action.

"What have you done Leonard?" Eleanor screams, all accusation.

Leonard slumps further in his chair like a used punching bag. He knows the weight of what he's done but all he feels is numb. "What Pa asked me," he mumbles. It's not an excuse but it is what drove his motivation. There was nothing malicious in his actions, if anything he wants, no needs, his mother to know that. How could he deny his hero anything?

"It's a sin you know. One that God won't forgive," she lectures. She begged David to stop talking about it. It was bad enough she was losing the love of her life, she was furious that he would try and deprive them of the few days they had left. Leonard knew her wishes on the matter and still she's alone in the world. She's hurt and angry and her son has had a hand in taking David away.

"What about honor thy father?" he asks brokenly. He was against a rock and a hard place, of course he lost. He didn't realize how bad he would need someone to understand his predicament until he saw the recrimination on his mother's face.

"Don't sass me boy." She doesn't slap him across the face, but it certainly feels like she did.

He did it for his father, but knows she won't forgive him for taking the love of her life. Even if she could get over it, Eleanor McCoy is deeply in touch with her faith and he's just helped her husband break one of the big rules. Leonard has placed eternity between his parents and let their love story fall to ruin. Her faith won't allow Leonard to be back in her good graces. With one bullet he lost both parents.

The silence that exists in the house following David's passing is excruciating, leaving nothing but the echoes of the gun ringing through Leonard's head. Jocelyn is at home consoling Joanna but he can't bring himself to leave his father's home, to leave his mother more alone than she already is. His attempts to console are ignored and his desperate pleas to be wrapped safely in his mother's arms go unanswered. He's the ghost in the house, forgotten and shunned, the source of malcontent within the McCoy family. He thinks it would be better to have his mother rant and rave and belittle him in her anger at life, anything other than the icy silence freezing him out. At least she would be acknowledging and confirming that he was still alive.

The funeral is small, just immediate family and a few of the hands from the plantation. They aren't even in the family graveyard; suicides not allowed on consecrated ground. It's a fresh stab wound to bury David just outside the rod iron fence enforcing the invisible line between sin and salvation. When this life is over, it will be the gates of heaven that separate David and Eleanor. All of their social friends refused to attend, wanting no part in such unsightly dealings.

There's a black mark on Leonard's soul and he's not sure if he's grateful for Eleanor not using him as a scapegoat to save David's immortal soul or not. Saying Leonard pulled the trigger would save face in front of Atlanta society; Leonard becoming the dirty secret, a man that murdered his father but they would think fondly upon David. It boils down to his life or his father's legacy and right now he feels as though he doesn't have either anyway.

Jocelyn takes Joanna's hand and they walk back towards the house, leaving Leonard alone with Eleanor and the ghost of his father. It's an unbearable void separating them, insurmountable in its vastness. He doesn't have the words to make things better.

"I want you out of this house," states his mother, voice brittle with grief. "I never want to see you again."

Leonard just nods. He hasn't been able to shake the numbness that's set in. He's ravaged by grief too and can't bring himself to blame his mother for her hatred. He can't look himself in the mirror, let alone forcing anyone else to look at him. He thought words from her would bring relief but they've just made the chasm in his heart larger. There's no one to make things better for, he only has his own two hands to fix things and he's seen what his hands are capable of.

She turns to head back to the house but stops after one step. "It's because we're kin that I don't turn you over to the Sheriff for what you've done." There's no accusation in her voice, just cold detachment. "I hope one day you can find salvation, but it won't be here and it won't be from me."

He watches her leave before whispering, "I hope so too." He knows what lies before him, a once bright future tainted dark.

* * *

Leonard tries to go through the motions. He maintains his father's practice and pours himself into medicine when he's not pouring himself a bottle. As much as the gossip mill has had a field day with what they think transpired in the McCoy home, being one of only a few doctors in town means business will never run dry no matter society's opinion of him. He's the hope to the sick and dying and he finds it ironic.

Once a month he heads to the bank after work, requests the bank manager in person. He deposits a couple of dollars in his father's account, an allowance for his mother. He knows she should never have to worry about money but doesn't think she's ever been responsible for the family finances before. It's not much but it should make sure that no matter how poor his mother's money skills may be, she'll not want for anything. David was adamant that the love of his life want for nothing and Leonard's going to make sure that's a promise his father keeps.

He makes a point to stay sober until Joanna goes to bed. She's already upset over the loss of her Grandpa, she doesn't need the burden of life dumped upon that. He'll shield her as best he can so she'll never know what befell her grandfather or know the feel and burden of a gun in her own hands. It takes all of his effort to put on a happy face and listen to her prattle on about all the wonders she sees in the world, leaving little energy for anything more than awkward silences at dinner between himself and Jocelyn. He wishes he could see the world the way his little girl does.

The days all blur together except Sunday when he takes something to stave off his hangover and puts on his church clothes. He sits through service because it's expected. If it was solely up to him he would have stopped going after he buried his father outside the family plot; the prayers have long since turned to ash in his mouth. His own salvation is out of reach, so there's no point in asking.

Eleanor sits two pews ahead, never turning to look at the son she wiped her hands clean of. He's a living ghost watching everyone else continue on with life. After service he trails behind Joanna who's always a whirlwind of excitement, buzzing around like the humming bird she's always reminded him of. He slows down when he reaches the steps of the church. It's the one small mercy Eleanor sees fit to grant him, talking with Joanna, and he keeps his distance so as not to cut his daughter's time with her Grandmother short.

It would break Joanna's little heart in far more pieces than Leonard would ever be able to put together if Eleanor shunned her too. Leonard can't be responsible for breaking his daughter's heart they way he broke his mother's, he couldn't possibly survive it; Joanna is the only reason to get up in the morning and numbly crawl through the day. His mamma even maintains a civil courtship with Jocelyn and it's the most he can hope for his family; a disjointed future where they hover in each other's spheres but never collide. The road ahead seems long and lonely but the hardship is his to bear and he'll do it with all the strength his father ever gave him.

* * *

Leonard spends every night drunk. It dulls the pain that's taken up residence in his heart and earns him nothing more than a disapproving tsk from his wife. It's the only balm he's found to sooth the nightmares that constantly haunt him. He's jolted awake by the gentle whisper of his daughter as she leans close to his ear.

"Daddy, do you like my dress?" She takes a step back from the sofa Leonard's sprawled and twirls around in her pretty pink dress, her smile so bright it eclipses the sun.

Leonard cracks an eye open and watches as candy pink floats and dances in front of him. He sits up gingerly, wincing at the aches and pains of another night spent not in the bed he shares with his wife. His mouth tastes like something died in it and for a brief moment he believes he's the proud parent of twin girls.

"Mamma bought it for me from Smith and Mason," she reports sagely. "It's for the Treadway's party tonight."

Leonard smiles, the same one Joanna's giving him. His little girl is growing up so fast; an old soul that's well beyond her five years. "That's nice hummin' bird. You look very pretty," he assures her. He loves her so much, it hurts; it's the one ache Leonard can live with.

If it's possible she lights up even more. She offers a curtsy and proceeds to dance her way out of the room. Leonard watches her go, feeling a sense of right in the world that something as simple as a bright pinks dress can make someone that happy.

His focus shifts as his daughter disappears out of sight to Jocelyn standing in the doorway. She's causally leaning against the door frame with a look that's some magical combination of cross, disappointed but not entirely surprised. "I assume you're not coming tonight." There's no accusation in the statement, just a well used tone of acceptance for Leonard's short comings.

It takes everything he has to get through the day as it is, he has nothing left for frivolous social gatherings with people who only care for what you can do for them and who you can help them climb social ranks. If Jocelyn feels her husband has abandoned her, she never says anything, just carries on her duty with all the grace she's always had. He can imagine she's long run out of excuses for his absence.

"Ma going to be there?" he asks, letting his head hang. The soothing balm of Joanna is gone and he's feeling the repercussions of his drunken stupor more keenly. He runs a hand through his messy hair which he has no hope of taming.

Jocelyn shrugs one shoulder. "Probably. It's a society party."

"Then no."

Jocelyn leaves the parlor indifferent to her husband's choice to be absent.

* * *

Leonard's not sure what wakes him. He rubs at his eyes trying to dispel the crust that's pulling at his lashes. The telltale kink in his neck speaks to another night passed out in the parlor and the rays of light boldly bargaining through the windows are harsh and unforgiving. It takes his fuzzy brain a moment to figure out what he's looking at; the world is always sideways, both literally and figuratively these days.

The silence is broken by Joanna's harsh cough. Leonard shoots up into a sitting position, the world spinning around him, to get a good look at his daughter kneeling at the table working on a puzzle. She's always been smart, with a mind so quick he can barely keep up. The world's going to bow to her genius. "Are you alright there hummin' bird?" he asks Joanna, his doctor instincts tickling the back of his brain. He takes stock of his daughter. She looks a little tired, pale. He blames it on the late night at the Treadway party and dismisses the gnawing feeling in his gut as his stomach rebelling against the bottle of bourbon he consumed.

Joanna nods getting up on her knees and crawling the distance from the table to the sofa. "I'm fine daddy. The box was just dusty," she assures him. She places a small hand on his forehead and frowns, a look that's such a carbon copy of Leonard, there can be no mistaking who her father is. "You're a little warm though."

He gives her a soft smile, pulling her hand away from his forehead and kissing it gently. His future is bleak except where his daughter is concerned. Hers will be bright and joyous, changing mankind for the better. All the hope he once held for his life, he pours into hers.

* * *

It starts with a few cases, mostly people who are passing through on their way to the open west but soon Rigelian Fever is showing symptoms in people Leonard knows. By the time the town realizes it has a full blown out break, McCoy's supply of Ryetalyn has run dry. The supply shipment that's was due is running late, so late in fact that another shipment has been sent. But if the first shipment has been hijacked en route, the second probably will be too. Ryetalyn is almost worth its weight in gold.

His hands are tied for helping the inflicted in town; the mortality rate is extremely high. He's been so busy at work trying to get ahead of the fever he fails to notice the pattern of those inflicted: all had attended the soiree at the Treadway estate. Working until after Joanna goes to bed, he hasn't seen her symptoms increase until Jocelyn's frantic scream early one morning as she finds Joanna still asleep in bed burning with fever.

He holds his baby girl tight to his chest, anything to feel the shallow breaths she's been reduced to taking. Without the Ryetalyn there's nothing he can do for his daughter but hope. He wraps her tightly in her favorite pink blanket and whispers soft words of encouragement, to hold on, to survive because he isn't ready to let her go. She has a future ahead of her and he can't bear for it to be denied. He tells himself that if anyone can overcome the one hundred percent fatality rate for seniors and children, it's his girl. Despite being respectable, the McCoy's have always been fighters, he knows Joanna has this trait too.

He sits with Joanna through the night, long past the point where he can't feel his arms and legs anymore but he doesn't twitch a muscle or anything that might disturb the precious bundle he refuses to part with. Every cough that rattles her small frame is another knife in his heart. If God hasn't damned him already, he condemns himself. He should have paid more attention, diagnosed Joanna when he still had enough medicine to give her. He faltered in his duty as a doctor, a husband and a father and it's his little girl who's paying the price. His heart is splayed open and only Joanna's little hands have the skill to sew it back together.

Jocelyn alternates between pacing the house and sitting on the other side of the bed, holding Joanna's small hand and glaring daggers at Leonard. He's not interested in arguing blame or failings at the moment, knows instinctively that most lies upon his doorstep but a part of him spares a moment to resent the socialite his wife is and her desperate need to mingle with high society that put his little girl in the epicenter of the outbreak.

Shame burns bright and hot in him, like Joanna's fever, at the thought. Despite the problems that have been forming between himself and his wife, he knows she does her best as far as Joanna's concerned. Joanna always has her own will and opinion on things and even if Leonard had said she couldn't attend the party, Joanna would have crossed her arms and pouted her lip, melting Leonard's heart and causing him to cave into her demand. He desperately prays she'll give into his demand to beat this infliction.

It's twilight the next night when Joanna takes a breath and Leonard's catches in his throat as he waits for the next one. He's tense to the point of shattering but all he can do is count the seconds until her little chest sucks in another raggedy breath. It never comes. A tear, hot and heavy, rolls down his cheek. He knows what's happened but his heart doesn't want to believe his head.

"Hummin' bird," he whispers, his arms wrapping tighter around her. "Come on hummin' bird, I need you to take a breath for me. _Please._ " He's not too proud to beg.

The plea stirs Jocelyn, who's nodded off. She sits up in the bed, eyes darting from Joanna's form to Leonard face looking for some sign he's wrong. Her hand covers her mouth at the gentle shake of Leonard's head. Suddenly, she has to move; she paces the room a few times taking deep breaths before running out of the room completely.

Leonard flinches at the sound of their bedroom door slamming shut. It doesn't take long for the oppressive silence of death to be shattered by the raging sobs of Jocelyn in the next room. He's envious of Jocelyn's emotion, can't summon any himself. He's numb, numb and cold and so lost that he must be alone in the universe. He loses all track of time but somewhere along the line twilight exchanges for dawn and the sobs in the next room have run dry. His world has narrowed to a square of bright pink blanket and a now cold stiffness in his arms.

One of the servants comes into the room, whispers in his ear. None of it makes any sense but he doesn't fight as they gentle extract the body from his arms and lay it gently on the bed. Blindly he gets to his feet and finds himself standing in front of the door to his bedroom. He wants nothing more than to stagger out into the backyard with a shovel, dig a hole and drink until he passes out in it but he has a duty to his wife, his wife who has lost their daughter too. He opens the door and shuffles in, stands there useless and lifeless until Jocelyn notices his presence.

Her grief turns to anger as she flies off the bed. "You're supposed to be a doctor!" she accuses, before slapping him across the face. He takes it without protest or objection. He just wants to feel something, something other than hollow and gutted. She steps closer, uses her fists against his chest to express her anger. "The best, studied in New York. The mighty Doctor McCoy," she continues, her words as sharp as her blows. "What kind of doctor can't even save his own daughter?"

He wraps his arms around her, pulling her in tight. She keeps hitting him until she runs out of energy and her knees buckle bringing them both to the floor in a gentle heap. Her anger turns back to sobs as she desperately clings to him. He doesn't even feel any of it, can't feel anything, just whispers, "It'll all be alright," even though he doesn't believe it.

Joanna needed him and he failed to save her. If there really was a God and he knew anything of mercy, he'd take Leonard and leave his baby alone. It didn't work out that way. Joanna is gone and his future has ended right here.

The Ryetalyn shipment shows up the next day.

* * *

If his father's death had crippled him, Joanna's has completely destroyed him. He takes to the bottle the second he steps in the front door after work. Most days he barely gets out of bed before ten in the morning, but he makes the effort to maintain his practice. He has nothing to live for but he can't bear the thought that he can prevent this from happening to someone else and not using those skills. He'll be a better doctor in the brief moments he can manage sobriety.

He and Jocelyn are ghosts that exist in the same space. It's been a year of quiet dinners and less than silent accusations; their misery magnified in the confines of their home. The only time he feels marginally human is when he's at his office and he sees the same former light in Jocelyn's eyes when she puts on a pretty dress and fake smile and attends all the social gatherings required of someone of their station. The Treadways have been instrumental in getting Jocelyn out of the house and back into social norms. He's grateful to Clay in particular for escorting his wife and providing her with company at said social events when he can't even force himself to get out of bed. He's never been more grateful for his friend's helping hand than now.

He's sure they'll turn the corner soon, has hope that they can salvage what they lost. It's the only thing he can hope for. He makes the decision to curve back his alcohol consumption; it had long lost its numbing effect anyhow. He'll be a better man for Jocelyn, be the man she fell in love with. He'll be something his daughter could be proud of.

A month into his plan the world seems a little brighter but not any less hollow. He knows he can never fill the hole Joanna left but he can't bear to destroy Jocelyn with his bitterness. He takes the afternoon off and strolls through the meadow on the way home collecting wildflowers for a bouquet. It's a small gesture, one he used to do when he was courting Jocelyn. He doesn't know how else to beg Jocelyn to allow him to put together the tattered remains of their family.

He stands in front of the house a moment, summoning his courage and fixing a smile upon his face. Perhaps if he fakes happiness it will become so familiar it will take. He throws open the door and is greeted by emptiness. A quick inspection reveals the first floor is empty but a muffled thud pulls his attention upstairs. He bounds up the stairs, flowers clutched in his hand, and opens the bedroom door calling Jocelyn's name with a joy he hasn't heard from himself in years.

He freezes instantly, her name dying in his throat. He's not even sure his heart is beating anymore which is a stark contrast to the flailing and panicked movements of Jocelyn in their bed. When the sheets finally settle Leonard gets a good look of an all too familiar face laying next to his wife hiding behind the crisp bed sheets to preserve any modesty the pair might have left.

"Leonard!" exclaims Jocelyn, fear and surprise rippling across her face.

"It's not what it seems," starts Clay looking more guilty and embarrassed than Mrs McCoy.

Leonard's been a fool about many things in his life but he knows exactly what this is. The numbness is back seeping into every one of his bones leaving him standing there. There should be anger at his wife's betrayal, heartbreak or grief but there's nothing. His heart might have literally stopped beating. His brain, which is normally sharp, is sluggish and dull. He opens his mouth to express his displeasure at walking in on such a scene but the only thing to come out of his mouth is, "Those are my boots," because it's bad enough his best friend is defiling his wife, but does he have to do it wearing the boots Joanna gave him for his birthday two years ago?

His feet are carrying him to the door before either of them can say anything. He doesn't stop until he's at the saloon asking the bartender to leave the bottle. He pours himself a glass and toasts to having no future at all.

* * *

He manages to stumble home that night but can't bring himself to go to the bed he used to share with his wife. It would be too much to sleep in the bed where his marriage went to die; it would be more like sleeping in a coffin. It doesn't matter, Jocelyn hears him come home and confronts him in the hallway. He finds it ironic that she's the one that's angry.

"He loves me, Leonard!" she shouts before he can say anything, all spitfire and rage. It's an accusation that cuts straight to his heart. It says it all, but the thing that hurts most are all the words she doesn't say. "Clay's a good man with a bright future. He can give me everything I want, everything I need. _He_ loves me."

" _I_ love you," he replies brokenly. It hurts to think that she doesn't believe that. He never realized just how much Jocelyn really was just like everyone else in their social circle. She clearly shares the same opportunistic and calculating spirit as Clay making them a perfect match. He has visions of the senate turning on Caesar, so many deadly thrusts that his death can't be pinpointed on one person. The world has given him so many daggers he doesn't know which one is responsible for finishing him off. He walks away, ignoring Jocelyn's continued rant and enters Joanna's room for the first time since she passed. He curls up in her bed, pulling the blankets, that still smell like his little angel, close and cries himself to sleep.

Morning doesn't bring absolution but it does bring clarity. There's a graveyard behind the house and he's buried all the people out there. First his father through illness, then his mother when he helped pull the trigger to end his father's suffering. Joanna rests there because he failed to save her and now Jocelyn because his grief over their daughter has left him so lost in the darkness of his soul he didn't see her finding comfort in the willing arms of others. There's no one left to bury but himself. Perhaps it would be better for everyone if he did. He wouldn't be able to hurt anyone anymore that way. The pieces of his life are so broken and scattered by the wind there's nothing to hold onto anymore.

He has business to take care of first. He goes to the bank and transfers a large sum of money into his mother's account. His next stop is with the lawyer before tracking down Clay Treadway. The maid lets him into the Treadway estate and escorts him to the office when he claims official business. He doesn't feel bad about interrupting Clay's business meeting. Before Clay can say anything he hands him a set of papers with still wet ink and says, "She's all yours," before turning and walking out.

When Leonard returns home, the house is empty. He has no idea where Jocelyn has gotten to but he imagines she's commiserating with his mother on just what a horrible human being he is. He opens a bottle of twenty year old scotch that his father gave him on his wedding day and savors it. After his first glass, he pulls out the case he's kept hidden in the back of the liqueur cabinet and opens it. The cold metal glints in the soft afternoon light; it's just as intimidating as the last time he laid eyes on it. He'd hidden it, like some dirty secret, the last connection he had to his father and the seam ripper that pulled the first thread out of his life leaving the rest of the patch work quilt of his soul in disarray. He thinks about it for a second but knows deep down he's too much of a coward to pick his father's gun up and pull the trigger for himself.

Instead he heads up stairs to pack a bag. There isn't much he wants nor needs. He packs a few pieces of clothing but leaves the boots by Jocelyn's bed. He takes the pocket watch his mother gave him before he left for school, the medical bag his father bought him when he returned, and Joanna's pink blanket. He drafts a letter for Jocelyn with his apologies for the mess he's made out of everything and goes to leave his wedding ring with it but finds he can't bear to part with it, instead he moves it over to his last finger. He leaves the key to the house on the table; Jocelyn can have it all, she was always more suited to the life of a socialite than he was. He kind of hopes she and Clay will be happy together, regardless, it isn't his concern anymore.

Leonard heads to the post office to read through the requests for doctors in the new and blossoming towns spring up out west. He picks the one with the worst reputation and the greatest distance from Atlanta and requests a telegraph be sent confirming his acceptance of the position. If the arduous journey to Federation City doesn't kill him, the roughness of the west will. Maybe some outlaw will be able to do him the favor of pulling the trigger and save him from his miserable existence.

* * *

 ** _That's the last one. Next in the Western Enterprises Series is Among the Willows (already posted) and Catching a Weasel Asleep (posting in progress)_**

 ** _Thank you to everyone who read this story and/or commented, you're the best.  
_** ** _Thanks to CaptainNinapants for beta reading this story._**


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